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The half elven knight looks every part the budding 'dashing cavalier', right down to the chiselled jaw and charming smile - his milk coffee skin is well cared for and his grooming is immaculate.
He wears a fine breastplate of a slightly unusual design, vented for travelling in the heat, and embossed with roses - which on closer inspection reveal very sharp thorns wrought of cold iron. Similarly a well made longsword hangs at his side, also wrought of cold iron. A large steel shield bears the device of a rose. A holy symbol of Shelyn hangs from his neck.
He awaits his fellows whilst playing his mandolin skilfully, giving smouldering come hither eyes to any attractive onlookers.
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Rilia notes the half-human, with eyes of smoldering amber. She is a touch melancholic over the fact that in a scant handful of decades his beauty will surely diminish. Though until then....
Tall and wain in the way of elves, Rilia's skin is smooth like marble cast in a shade of lustrous ecru. Her attire, leathers and silks a shade or two paler than she, shows off the smooth lines of her figure and--in the way of elves, seems more ceremonial that substantive, revealing much of her midriff and the mark of Calistria tattooed about her navel. It also allows one to see the scorpion whip and silvery rapier at either side of her hips. Like her mistress she can sting a man in many ways.
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The knight notes the entrance of the Calistrian, his interest immediately piqued "Lance, the Rose of Kyonin" he offers by way of introduction, his eyes bearing a slightly jaded confidence as though up for any challenges, then he returns to playing his Elven music softly. "the day has started well when the beloved of Calistria bless us with their presence. Which guise does she wear today?"
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A rose of Kyonin or merely a wild rose of Erages?
"Why all of them ser knight. She is a goddess of three-fold mystery after all. I am Rilia a dedicated temple hetaira and servant of The Unquenchable Fire." She draws very near, placing her hand upon Lance's strumming fingers. "Tell me ser Lance, how is it that a rose one might pluck from an elvish garden and press to her breast might in turn pluck a fine instrument such as you carry with you?"
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An earnest, young half-elf walks cautiously into the lodge, trying to avoid catching or hitting anything with his unweildy lucern hammer. Along with the hammer he bears a longbow. Under his cheap leather armor are simple, loose garments, and his shoulder bears the symbol of Sarenrae.
Though he has a wide and disarming grin, he is awkward and uncertain, as if someone might notice him and throw him out of the lodge at any moment. He clearly has seen little action, and likely little of the world.
He stands respectfully listening to the older healers and paladins, hoping to catch a choice tidbit of wisdom, and waiting to be given instructions.
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A darker rose either way, a hint of Ekujae?
Lance looks at his mandolin then back to Rilia, "Shelyn holds dear to the Rose, so the Rose holds dear to Shelyn and shows appreciation to her through art and music. After all, it is she that casts her blessing on artists, poets,...and lovers. Do you play?" He questions coyly, possibly referring to the mandolin.
His gaze moves to Kirian, and he gives a slight nod and a wave.
"Come and join us, brother" Lance offers, motioning to a nearby chair.
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“One of our number has fallen.” Venture-Captain Adril Hestram lets the grave words hang in the air before continuing. It’s difficult to imagine a large man like Adril defeated, but in light of this grim news his shoulders slump; he is a man who suffered a loss. “Targos Min Katheer, esteemed venture-captain, is dead. His last wishes are simple: he wants his mortal remains to take one last trip along the Silken Way to his home city of Katheer, there to rest with his ancestors. He was one of our finest and we aim to honor his request. It is for this reason I’ve called you all together.” Adril points one sausage-thick finger at the map on the table, tracing a line from Absalom to the mouth of the Pashman River, then snaking up the river to the oasis city of Lopul. “Here is where you can gather up his remains and join the silken caravan, one of the only caravans daring the harsh journey across the desert from Lopul to Katheer. This mission is simple, joyride really, but we insist you give it the attention it deserves. A few weeks in the sun, seeing the sights of the desert. A dream assignment.”
Adril has a way of making every assignment sound like a sweet deal, but the last few weeks traveling by boat up the Pashman River and then hiking the short distance to the oasis city have been grueling to the extreme. A poisonous river snake claimed one of your guides; you remember his last gasps well, and how his face bloated to twice its usual size within seconds of the bite.
Before you now lies Lopul, the great caravan city, erected around the crystal life-giving waters of the Pool of Sihbon, the largest oasis for over one hundred miles. Mud brick houses baking in the sun and great canvas tents crowd the central copse of palm and date trees.
Lopul is a caravan-city ruled by the Sheikh Samraf Al- Hadari, humble servant to the padishah emperor of Kelesh. The settlement’s population fluctuates wildly with the comings and goings of trade caravans, but usually has at least a thousand locals and travelers in residence at any one time. Most of the city is comprised of tents and temporary dwellings erected by merchants and caravan masters, with only about a quarter of the city’s structures being permanently built around the Pool of Sihbon itself. Among these permanent structures are a half dozen caravanserai, the fortress of the sheikh, and two score domed dwellings constructed of mud brick. One such dwelling is the former residence of Targos Min-Katheer. All that remains is to collect his body and join the silken caravan.
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"Please, it is obvious he a devout man sworn to The Dawnflower.
Kirian, I too am devout to a faith greater than myself, perhaps we could take prayer in private congress together. Though I admit to not being an early riser, I would still like to see you at your morning absolution. Perhaps we could discuss dogma and doctrine by starlight and you could rouse me in the morn? Who knows perhaps you could kindle a divine light within me and move me to love your lady also."
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Apparently ignorant of the not-so-subtle banter, Roscoe remains quiet and focused on practical matters for most of the trip. "We should acquire clothing better suited to the region. It'll help us blend in better with the locals in addition to handling the heat. The linen used here breathes easier while remaining light."
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Rilia recalls what she knows of the deceased Venture Captain. Originally from Katheer, later in life he made his home in Lopul when not traveling. Targos was an prolific Pathfinder, contributing more than two dozen entries to the Pathfinder Chronicles. As a native of the area, he became an expert on the lands along the Silken Way.
Entering the town it is not difficult to discern which hut belongs to the late Venture-Captain. A small mud-brick, domed dwelling lies at the end of a humble, sandy street here in the heart of the caravan city.
The scent of the nearby oasis still reaches you, and a hive of bees, attracted by the nearby water, hangs from a date palm next to the house. The wails of mourners and cries of women and children reach your ears, and you can see a small crowd gathered outside the house’s single door, its members crying and tearing their garments. Whether professionally hired mourners or sorrow-filled residents outpouring legitimate grief for the loss of a local hero is unclear, but the emotion seems genuine enough.
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Once Kirian understand the source of the odd magical mishaps, the cloud of confusion lifts from his face and he approaches Rilia.
"Ah, I understand, you are trying to indicate your attraction to me. We do things differently in Mendev- we speak plainly.
No Thank you.
I will not bed you.
I'm married, see?"
He exibits his necklace which turns out to be braided human hair -- apparently some marriage token.
"I hope that I'm already a father, if all goes well, but word has not had time to reach me.
You do realize the importance of vows to a Paladin like myself, yes? Once is a compliment, but twice would be an insult."
He smiles politely but there's the first hint of steel that you've seen from him, behind the smile.
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"You are a natural in the saddle Kirian, and so broad shouldered, do you wrestle...?"
Kirian looks confused at first then understanding comes to his eyes.
"A compliment of course-- intended to boost the confidence of the raw recruit. I was wondering how your judgment could be so bad. My order teaches the important of being accurate in understanding your own strengths and weaknesses, though it is often hard. But I have little doubt that I am an indifferent horseman, and only a little stronger perhaps than average.
Perhaps you and Mistress Rilia can make an effort to speak more plainly as I attempt to understand your ways of indirect speech -- or I fear we will constantly be missunderstanding each other!
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"We should acquire clothing better suited to the region. It'll help us blend in better with the locals in addition to handling the heat. The linen used here breathes easier while remaining light."
"Excelent idea Master Thorngage." says the sweat-soaked Kirian obviously used to far cooler climes.
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Knocking at the front door brings an answer in the form of a man in sackcloth with ashes poured over his freshly shaved head. His face is sickly pale under the coating of ashes, and part of one ear if missing. His hands are wrapped in dirty bandages.
Targos was known for his generosity to the poor and afflicted, so his appearance here is not that surprising.
The man respectfully moves out of your path without a word to avoid accidental contact. The front room of the house holds more mourners, and a curtained doorway blocks access to the house’s lone bedroom.
Shortly after entering, a man wearing priestly robes and a black jackal death mask emerges from behind the curtain.
His voice is muffled from the mask as he introduces himself.
Welcome, I am Ben-Garri. We were just starting the honored Venture-Captains funeral preparations. It will take some time if you wish to return around nightfall to claim his body.
The mourners leave from behind the veil as they start to dress and wrap the late Venture-Captain's body.
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"Excelent idea Master Thorngage." says the sweat-soaked Kirian obviously used to far cooler climes.
*sigh*
The scent of the nearby oasis still reaches you, and a hive of bees, attracted by the nearby water, hangs from a date palm next to the house. The wails of mourners and cries of women and children reach your ears, and you can see a small crowd gathered outside the house’s single door, its members crying and tearing their garments. Whether professionally hired mourners or sorrow-filled residents outpouring legitimate grief for the loss of a local hero is unclear, but the emotion seems genuine enough.
Knocking at the front door brings an answer in the form of a man in sackcloth with ashes poured over his freshly shaved head. His face is sickly pale under the coating of ashes, and part of one ear if missing. His hands are wrapped in dirty bandages.
Something is wrong here.
[dice=bluff (pass secret message to the group, +1 if you find me charming)]1d20+2[/dice]
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A kitsune dressed in fancy clothes enters in the room gasping as if he had been running to come. My apologizes Venture-Captain, I received the orders to come back with very few time to prepare myself. But I´m here to do as you order!
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During the trip he sees interested how Rose tries to seduce Kirian and sometimes even take notes. I´ve never tried to compose something by myself, but this looks worth to be included in a stage play, or a least a song.
Jhon follows his companions inside the house just to be worried on how this humans prepare a funeral rite. A lepreous? Yes the dead will not become ill, but the rest of the people near the deceased.
Well if Kirian thinks he´s in good hands... then she realizes the subtles movements of Rilia and pauses a moment. Well, if you need more time, surely we´ll find something to do in the city
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Roscoe follows the group inside, his movements precise to maintain equidistant space between himself and the lepers. "Ben-Garri, we understand and appreciate your diligence in this unfortunate matter. However, our society has customs that must be adhered to as well. If you could just direct us to the Captain, we can take care of it now with minimal inconvenience to your staff."
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Ben-Garri sighs behind his mask as he turns to Roscoe.
Targos Min-Katheer was a well-respected member of my church. He gave aid to many of the deformed and wilted Lepers you see before you.
Would we be here if we were not called by the revered Venture-Captain himself to attend to his funerary rites? Ben-Garri begins to chastise the fledgling Pathfinder as he waves his arm wide about the room. Your orders are of no consequence when it comes to the wishes of the dead as has been expressed to me by Targos himself. You can wait for the funerary rites to be finished as requested by Targos or I can have one of my assistants fetch the city watch to have you removed from the premises. Just because you are Pathfinders doesn't mean that you can do as you wish. You are not above the law here in Qadira.
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Lance grins to himself. He was going to gather the group at the stream to discuss the situation, but now the situation has escalated he embraces it.
Lance dismounts from flash and pushes forward.
"Ben Garri, you go to far in your behaviour - we are not above the law indeed, but you rise above your station to chastise a Pathfinder and to kick dirt upon the honour of such an upstanding fellow who travels in such august company. We have with us two holy people who can ensure the sanctity of the dead - it is you who will be removed from the premises. You are relieved."
Lance gesture down the road and makes it clear the fellow is to leave.
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Ben-Garri stands his ground behind Targos' body as the three lepers inside continue to perform the rites.
Targos did not ask for you to perform his funeral rites. He specifically requested my services. I am not here to argue with you. I am here to pay last respects to this well-respected member of my church. I only require a few hours to prepare him, then he is all yours.
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A half-orc ducks into the mud hut.
"Sorry I'm late, Mother had some last-minute chores..."
Sensing a palpable awkwardness in the air, Kajar tries to quickly assess the situation.
Kajar clears his throat. "Ahem, Honored Celebrant, Ben-Garri, though I agree Master Targos deserves proper funerary rites, we have been asked to deliver his mortal remains to their final resting place, as he was and is, actually, a well-respected member of our own order, too, the Pathfinder Society."
Kajar nods towards Rilia, interpreting her gestures. He looks at Lance, hoping the cavalier understands the delicate situation. In turn he signals Kirian and Roscoe, assuring them he is a fellow Pathfinder, and his hand slowly slides to his morningstar's handle, just in case.
"And again, though I am sure you act in good faith to our fallen comrade, unless you have a writ for his request, we do have his permission to proceed with the service, as can be provided by Master Kirian, a respected healer in his own rights, and of course we invite you and all the others outside his humble cottage to observe the rites of passage and pay respects. He was a generous man, and we aim to honor his last request, as well."
Kajar smiles a toothy grin.
"I'm sure we can find an amicable solution honoring our mutual friend."
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"Look, see? Our respected Holy Man is beginning his funerary rite functions already" Lance looks down his nose imperiously "We shall come in and join you, I am sure nothing stops the rites all taking place at the same time and I am not interested in dawdling, life is for the living"
Lance will simply barge past to go see what is going on if the man wont stand aside willingly as he has been told to do.
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I thought we were going out to talk about this, but... who cares?
Honored Ben-Garri, I think there´s a misunderstand between us, but nothing that can be solved. Says Jhon with a smile, You have to perform the funerary rites, and we are not here to impede it, we were called as an honor guard for his body.
You can do your work, we will do ours without interfere with you, and the more religious of my companions can observe and, maybe learn something, who knows?
As my half-orf friend has said "we can find an amicable solution honoring our mutual friend", don´t we?
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You are more than welcome to watch. Let me explain what we are going to do as it can easily make even the most hearty person ill. We are going to begin by draining all of his blood from his body into a large bowl, while he wears the mask of the jackal that is upon my face. One of the initiated shall sew patches of skin and feathers into the honored Venture-Captain's flesh as his blood will be used to anoint all of the men and women in this room by drinking from the bowl. A fresh heart from a black dog will be placed into his mouth as we recite our incantation for half an hour. At dusk we will strip pieces of his flesh to be used as scrolls for holy text for our sect.
He holds forth a small dagger to Jhon Doe. Do you wish to assist?
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Kajar looks around the deceased's hut for any signs of Lamashtu patronage.
"Ahem, again, Honored Ben-Garri, we are to take the Master's body to his final resting place. I am not an expert on such things, but I would assume this would include his blood as well? I know little of such rites- I am a man of Gozreh, and my blood belongs to the wilds."
Kajar straightens his tall half-orc frame, topped with weapons and his large, white teeth.