As a dwarf, it is up to you to look after the needs of the various dwarven communities. As a sworn judge of the Mosval courts, it is your duty to rule on matters large and small throughout the Mosval region. As a maker of weapons and armor, it is your duty to create the best gear you possibly can. And as a Dedicate and petty saint of the Father, it is your god-touched duty to do what is right.
There have been a few very quiet unpleasant rumors of late about the Lord Seneschal, Baronet Caspar Rothchilde, but due to his nearing the end of his third term as Lord Seneschal, it is to be expected; there are always two or three people, nobles or a wealthy someone, who maneuver to try to acquire an appointment to one of the three most powerful political positions in the city. Nasty rumors, then, are a virtual certainty in the last year of a Lord's term, as opponents try to sully the Lord's good name, and get their own raised in exchange. It is to the Lord Seneschal that you report, but it is the Lord Reeve's Provosts who do the dirty work of the courts. The judges who travel on a circuit (which all younger judges must do from time to time) always bring two Provosts - they act as your personal bodyguard, your investigators, your posse-leaders, your executioners. They are, in general, a ruthless, sly, bloody-minded sort, the kind of person nobody wants to admit they need.
They are also, in general, very very dedicated to justice.
However, even in the Mother's season, a Dedicate of the Father has a job to do when he's in town, and that's accept a spot in the rotation for leading the various worship services; one at dawn, one two hours after mid-day, and then one at dusk. Such sessions are short: readings from 'Lives of the Saints' or other book of theosophy or theology, a declaration or offering of thanksgiving, and a short sermon by the dedicate leading the service, whether in regards to the God of the season or the element of the day. The three Dedicates who are assigned Treeday - like you were, for the dawn service - are allowed to sermonize on whatever they feel needs to be said. (Dedicates of the Bastard are particularly interesting in this regards, at least from the point of view of a Dedicate.)
Your morning duty done, you are putting your Dedicate's stole and robe into the 'visiting' cupboard inside the vestment room off the central chamber, perhaps contemplating another hour or so worth of rest, when a shouting echoes in the distance. Inside the temple precincts, certainly, but ... there aren't many up at this hour, really. (Early morning services are attended by those used to getting up at the crack of an hour before dawn, so they're not poorly attended, but they're not -well- attended.) Sandals clap rapidly thither and yon across the swept-daily cobbles and tiles, and then grow louder as they approach your door.
Knocking. "Dedicate IronBrow?" The door opens, and the acolyte for your dawn service, a woefully lean halfling tweener female named Walli, pokes her head in. "Dedicate? There's a boy here just over from the Sword of Boram, says please can you come over there straightaway. He seems pretty anxious about it." The Sword of Boram is an inn only a couple or three streets over; they make a pretty good dwarven stone stew every couple of weeks. For them to be sending for you would mean ... well, at the very least, that whatever's happened isn't probably an emergency, but probably involves both the temporal and the spiritual.
Well, so much for going back to bed.
The Crowsfoot Godswood is named such because three little tributary streams trickle down between the gaps of four massive trees, meeting each other all at once and tripping merrily downhill, out and away. The pattern it makes, therefore, looks very much like the impression a crow's foot would leave behind - three claws forward, one claw back. The trees are majestic examples of their individual kinds, taller than they properly might be, ancient and still hale, still opening flowers and producing nuts and dropping cones on the heads of the handful of acolytes who tend the Godswood in rotation.
Other vegetation resides here as well; the four trees may dominate the place, giving solid correspondence and presence to the four Elements, but the Holy Family find their lesser representation in their own ways - flowers, an exquisite miniature tree, even a riot of climbing vine that must be regularly and severely cut back.
It is a place for those who seek to be more in tune with nature to come and contemplate, as all godswoods are; in each season, one can feel the strength of each element in turn. Here, also, one may find guidance, whether the more mundane sort (for many a scout and ranger is known to the keepers of the wood) or of a more spiritual type ... well, of a sort of type. Druids have never, ever been the sort to sit with their thumbs up their backsides, contemplating the wind while the mountain falls down on top of them, so their spiritual guidance is rarely of the vague 'pray to the Gods for guidance' that you're likely to find in the Temples of the Five.
Here, they give practical spiritual advice. And it's here that you learn the practicalities of them.
Of the godswoods hereabouts, Crowsfoot is the linchpin; those druids that dominate and influence Crowsfoot can apply subtle but immense pressures on godswoods two, three, even four 'steps' away. This is the center of study of harmonius energy for hundreds of miles in any direction; here you can do something, then travel elsewhere to see the results. When the heartstone of Kedren's Tor underwent a severe and inexplicable shift which even getting near makes the hairs on the back of your neck rise, the druids (being unable to explain it) sent Baltor east and a little north to Crowsfoot.
There, the Keeper of the Wood, though once an elf from the far south, is ancient in the ways of nature, having grown old walking through the vast pine forests and decidual groves, across the sandstone, shale, and granite of the Razorbacks, into the jutting Iron Mountains north-east of Ice Bay, and even onto the greenskins' rolling plains and tundra well north of there. If there is something in nature that has happened in the last thousand years, he has either experienced it, or been told of it by the Keepers that have gone before him; knotted tapestries that form a unique sort of library fill his hogan, and he is known to run his fingers over them when searching for an answer.
Today, when Baltor arrives something before ten, the fog and haze of the past few days is finally starting to burn off. The Keeper is within the acre of the godswood itself, sitting on the eastern shore of the eastern tributary stream, unaware or uncaring that his boot-toe is in the water. He is closely watching something in the East Triangle, as the space between the eastern tributary and the middle is called.
"Baltor," the wizened old elf says without even looking over his shoulder. "Not often we see you here."
-----
Brand, having safely delivered a caravan from Ice Bay to Mosval yesterday midafternoon, had decided that three months away from the godswood might be a bit too long; the druids with whom he shared a love of nature never asked for his visits or presence, but if he was nearby, they always appreciated information and news, whether directly from whatever godswood he might've gone past, or even to, or just from his observations in moving over the land. With Crowsfoot being something in the nature of 'on the way back to my cabin', stopping by overnight (because walking in the dark in Dry Moon is asking for trouble) was a pretty good idea.
Give what you can, take what you need; the druids are a very communal sort of group, and though you can't perform the culinary wonders that some of these fellows can, you can chop wood and carry water with the best of them. Breakfast is simple but filling, and you talk with one of the druids as the two of you do dishes. A heavyset human woman called Bluebright (probably for her eyes - incredibly captivating), she listens with thoughtful interest as you tell her of the increased greenskin presence in Ice Bay, as well as the recent violence between the criminal groups that are the de facto rulers of the place.
"That's ... peculiar," she opinions, her body shifting in a rather interesting manner beneath the simple homespun robe she's wearing as, elbow-deep, she scrubs the bottom of a cauldron used to make porridge for the couple-hundred-strong (but widely scattered) community. "Did you get a chance to see what the tribes themselves were doing? Or," she adds, knowing your preferred method of interacting with greenskins, "were you wise enough to not go looking for salt at the bottom of the ocean?"
It's Expedition Time!!
Well, not totally, and the Ravennan Historical Preservation Society has been a little light on funds recently, so the final selection of the five expedition proposals to nearby sites that are on the table for the local leadership to decide amongst is more likely to be chosen on the grounds of 'what can we afford', not 'what is likely to bring back items of interest'. As it nears lunch time, you and a handful of more senior 'archaeologists' are in the library of the Little House with your wheelchair-bound sister, going over maps of the proposed sites, maps refined from sketches of earlier explorations. Though others of the explorers occasionally go to retrieve a book, scroll, or map for Pameel, it's Welby who is most often told to 'gofer' - and why not, right? She's your sister, and picking on big brothers is what a little sister is meant to do in life.
The ironically-named 'Little House' is a sprawling thirty room non-mansion created by purchasing nearly an entire row of townhomes and knocking doors in the walls and, in the case of the room you're in, large portions of the floor away. Started almost a hundred years ago by a number of the aforementioned senior archaeologists, it is the headquarters for the local action group, the very place which Khofi first invited you to visit. While you have become a frequent visitor, you are not yet a member; this privilege, however, is one that the brilliant, livelier, but still low-key Pameel has acquired. Though she does not live in the Little House, it may well just be a matter of time. It's a good sort of life for her, highly respected by active people who look to her for direction, information, and advice; it certainly comes with an excellent kitchen, and you are definitely looking forward to the table they set.
At the moment, Khofi (who, with his dark skin, sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the otherwise light-skinned members of the club) is sitting kitty-corner next to your sister, hunting through six different inch-thick books for an obscure reference the young halfling woman insisted was in there. Davan, a lean half-elf who has saved your life with his pinpoint shots more than once, is sketching with chalk and slate, debating with Sir Sean Henry about the known variations of Kolschi'ichanth construction, and trying to imagine what might be beyond the revealed rooms of one of the proposed sites.
Sir Henry is a giant of a hammer-wielding man, knighted for valor but gentle in private - so gentle that while you're up and about, your thrush friend Harley prefers to sit on his wide shoulder, watching what he's doing. Right now, you and Darna (gnome female, a Temple-authorized sorceress) are in the midst of reshelving and retrieving half a dozen book requests on the two floors of the library when you hear footsteps approaching along the hallway outside the main doors.
One of the senior servants of the Little House, the 32-year-old underbutler Nathan Blake, opens up both of the library doors with the sort of formality one gives to someone of much higher station. Through the doors steps a well-dressed but piggy-eyed young human male, at a guess in his mid- to late-twenties, who looks at absolutely everyone in the room with the ill-concealed contempt of the spoiled noble brat for anyone who actually dirties their hands for a living; his own are clasped behind his back, causing his light jacket to shift with every step in a manner that is probably not accidental, because it gives the brass pinned to the right breast every opportunity to catch the light. Your own keen ex-con always-alert-for-the-law eyes identify it as a Provost's badge.
"Masters," starts Nathan, only to be stomped ruthlessly upon by the little twerp.
"The Provosts are here," proclaims the self-impressed twentysomething noble scion. "Which one of you degenerates is the convict Welby?
Those on the main floor look at each other in mildly offended reaction, but the best one is Darna, bending so far over the railing around one of the tidy square-cut holes you think she might fall through, says sotto voce to you, "Degenerates? Henry's not degenerate ..."
Rich people are a pain in the tuckus.
While the two of you undoubtedly know each other on sight - after all, how many tutors of young ladies can there be in a city of ten thousand? - you have never been introduced to each other. At the moment, the two of you are sitting in one of the anterooms of the Fortress after having been carefully led there by a young page, your bell having been rung around seven thirty this morning by the aforementioned page. Said the page, "Ma'am," - well, sir in the case of Professor Brooks - "apologies for the early hour, but the Lord Reeve requests your presence at the Fortress in a matter of considerable urgency."
To Nissa, the page added, "The Lord Reeve requests you come fully kitted out for action within the city, ma'am." Said Brooks' page, "My Lord asks that you bring your, um, complete medicinals kit." The page concluded with, "I'm to wait and be your torchbearer." Good thing, too, because the brisk walk or light jog to the aptly-if-dully-named Fortress, once home to the destroyed Ducal line, is through pea-soup fog that eddies like a restless ghost.
Though the council that rules still holds the city 'in the Duke's name', it's commonly accepted that that's a fiction, and 'when the duke returns' is local for 'never'. Nonetheless, the sixty foot walls are impressively tall, as is the twenty-foot gate. The drawbridge over the fast-flowing Tumbler Canal is raised and lowered at least once a day, though it's been more than two centuries since it's been done due to battle.
"Wait in here, please," said the page, after which you were offered a bite to eat and a cup of the early-morning beverage of your choice, coffee or tea or juice or just plain refreshing water.
So are you gonna introduce yourself?
The bed you wake up on is not the bed you went to sleep on. This one is much harder than the comfortable bed you tumbled into with a comely young serving wench or attractive young bus-boy last night, their interest in you clear before any 'negotiations' about sleeping arrangements and renumeration for pleasureable company took place. Not a whore, but money is the sincerest form of flattery, and both young women and young men love to be flattered.
In Burhul's case, you recall, muzzily but pleasureably, of the girl turning down with a flip of her skirt the advances of a local scion of some sort of nobility, the son of a very successful merchant at least; the money, though desired, was clearly secondary to attraction, and though your skin isn't the socially-approved-of bronze or pale of the humans, the green tint of your melanin is rare and exotic enough, not to mention your clear strength and sophistication.
In Wyverna's case, you vaguely remember the burly but overgallant orc laughing as he carried a clearly-willing-if-playfully-shrieking buxom wench upstairs, but subtlety had its own rewards for you; the slight pursing of your lips in admiration of the late-teen boy's form, a forefinger stroking your chin when he looked over, the pause at the bottom of the steps once the crowd thinned out to look back at him watching you, deliberately glance up the stairs, then look back at him before giving a slight gesture of your head upwards - and then ascending alone. He showed up no more than ten minutes later, and the two of you ignored the sounds of pleasure coming through the two doors of the pair in the room across the way in favor of making your own gasps and moans.
For both of you, your partner for the evening went down afterwards, to fill cups from one of the pitchers of juice set outside on the kitchen stoop to cool overnight. Now, however, inside your head is an overeager band of dwarves banging on the walls of your skull as they search for threads of the fabled golden mystic metal orichalcum, which they call gromril, and which the elves call sah-le'estha'a, or 'sunmetal', and what you right now call 'in bloody well desperate need of willow-bark tea'.
Opening your eyes (pain) you see the stone ceiling (pain) of the room you are in, (pain) which must again not be (pain) the room in which you started the night, (pain) which had a wooden ceiling (pain). Looking around (pain) you realize your rented room (pain) in the inn whose name you can't remember at this moment (pain) also didn't have a heavy iron-bound door (pain) with a two-hand-length-square window (pain) with bars on it, (pain) hanging so it leaves (pain) a two- or three-inch gap at the bottom. (Oh yes - pain.)
Bastard's balls - you're in jail.
How much more will you stand, old man? And when you finally join the cycle, is there any one of us capable of taking your post? I know I can’t…
"No you do not, Keeper." The Keeper obviously knew his preferences, so Baltor assumed this was just like an old man missing his grandsons. "But here I am now. I am worried… the earth is restless. Something is wrong but the mountains are silent to me… perhaps the oaks told you more…"
Baltor walks towards the old man, trying to be silent, even though he knew that his walk was like an avalanche, and offered his hand to help him get up.
"We have a lot to talk, don’t we?"
|
Bain. Brand found that, after all this time, he still missed his father. Growing up, Bain had been the only consistent human contact Brand had. Brand had learned to hunt and to fight from his father. Hunting and fighting. The very things that made Brand who he was. Sometimes, Brand wished his father would have raised him among other people rather than isolated in the woods. Of course, that may have also meant more time playing and being a silly child rather than learning the ways of the woods. No. Brand did not regret being raised in the wilderness.
Brand was pulled out of his musings as his fellow dishwasher returned with an additional armload of plates. Brand tried to keep focused on his dishwashing rather than staring in admiration at her lovely shape. Brand had never really had a lot of experience in learning how to talk to women. Bluebright, as the lovely woman was known, gave him a smile as she deposited the dishes in their shared wash basin and then inquired about his travels.
Good. Talking about traveling is comfortable. Bluebright had a way of setting him at ease. Brand comfortably lapsed into telling her about his travels and observations. He was no storyteller, but he knew how to deliver details succinctly and effectively. She listened politely, gave occasional noises of encouragement, and asked questions here and there to seek clarity or additional details. She seemed most intrigued as he told her of the menace. The greenskins seemed to be acting in odd ways. Their infighting and additional violence was increasing noticeably in Ice Bay.
"That's...peculiar" she said as she inclined her body slightly towards him. He stood speechless and staring for a moment as he notice the...interesting...way that her body moved as she turned toward him while still bent over the basin. She went on to ask how close he'd gotten to the tribes while making his observations.
Brand felt foolish as her question finished and he stood there silent and staring for an awkward beat. "Oh, I...you know I prefer to keep to the quiet of the woods and deal with them in smaller numbers," he said, snapping back into reality and the conversation at hand. "Salt and the ocean and all that. Still, I can't help but think someone needs to find out what's going on out there. You know those greens control things in Ice Bay. Their thugs and mobs bully and control things."
His eyes flicked to the side again taking in an appreciative view of her again. "I've no mind for their politics, though, so I'm not sure I'd recognize what caused their inner fights even if I saw it. I suppose it's best if I keep to the woods and simply do my part to decrease their numbers. I have to keep good, honest, decent people safe. People like you...and your...all of you...the druids. You know what I mean."
Brand was glad he wore facial hair as it was covering the blush that was no doubt rising to his cheeks. Feeling more awkward as he found his talk and his eyes continually kept turning back to Bluebright, he simply redirected the question back to her. "Have you noticed any greenskin activity in the Crowsfoot? Or heard anything unusual?"
The Keeper of the Wood slowly sketches with one thin forefinger at the East Triangle. "Look. Something is up. The ant colony from the other side of the Fire maple is migrating south. Why do you think that is??"
You know, from your own training and wandering, that what happens 'within' the arc of the four trees (representing the elements from left to right, west to east, a widespread, gnarled-root oak for Earth, a tall lean poplar for Air, the red-in-autumn maple for Fire, and on the bank upon which you stand a great willow which trails its branches in the stream as it represents Water) and the circle they describe is reflective of what is happening, or will happen, or may happen, within the domain influenced directly by the godswood. Things that occur further out are indicative of other areas - Darknest to the east, Daggercleft to the southwest, Ravenhome to the west, Kelshin Rock and Trollheim to the north. The more further out, the less accurate the observations and predictions that can be made, but the Keeper has a reputation for knowing what's going on for two hundred miles in every direction without ever leaving the few acres of land around the Godswood.
Which means something is up - but what?
-----
Some distance further down the bank, Brand and Bluebright continue in their mundane work. While 'glowing reputation' is all well and good, being a caravan guard and forward scout means usually needing to do an honest day's work - or two of them, all in the same day. But certainly Bain would have tarred Brand's hide for being uppity had he not pitched in; out in the forest, once you've established whether or not someone's a friend ('cause if they're a foe, well, you're probably at odds anyhow), you help them out as much as you can.
Forest and weather don't care much for people. You help each other out when you run into each other, as much as possible without putting your own survival at risk. It's just the way of things.
Bluebright gives a noncommittal 'mmmm' in response to you talking about decreasing numbers and keeping 'good, honest, decent people' safe. "Some. There are often hunting and raiding groups down from the tribes on vision quests or adulthood trials - bolkin, goblins, orcs. They don't do as much damage as people think, but most people ... get caught up in the personal." She shrugs (which, again, causes interesting things to happen underneath that rather shapeless robe, undoubtedly doing more interesting things to your libido). "We've about ten or eleven greenskins here now. Nok Dha'Lek came down a tenday ago to discuss something with the Keeper of the Wood; they haven't mentioned anything besides among themselves, but any time the two of them aren't talking, the Keeper's been spending at the Crowsfoot itself."
She chews the inside of her cheek, straightening up and rubbing the back of her wrist against her forehead. "Maybe ... maybe you should go talk to him."
Horst pulls on his boots, then walks over to the washbasin to splash some water on his face and wash the sleep away. As he wipes his face with a towel, he calls over his shoulder to Walli.
Tell the boy I'll be right out, Walli.
He runs his fingers though his beard and flicks the remaining moisture off his fingers. Taking up his belt from the nightstand, he secures a handaxe in his belt. He doesn't walk the streets of Mosval armed to the teeth, but he likes to be ready for the kind of trouble to be found in the rougher parts of town. A dwarf with an axe on his hip makes a much less appetizing target than one without one.
His boots clomping on the stone, Horst emerges into the chapel. He considers the nervous boy for a moment, but speaks to the acolyte.
Tell the rector where I've gone please, Walli, and that I'll be back when this business is done.
Walli, standing near the boy, nods and withdraws.
Horst clomps by the boy in the pew without stopping. They boy remains seated, nervous and confused. The dwarf calls back to him without pausing.
Father's Tears, come on, boy! My legs are short and there's no time to lose. Tell me the matter as we go.
He would have killed for a cup of tea right now. And a blanket.
|
|
She had suggested speaking with the Keeper. This sounded like a very logical idea. In fact, it was probably the smartest thing he could do if he really wanted some answers or at least insight into what the greenskins might be up to.
Of course, logic and emotion were at odds at that moment. While gathering information would, indeed, be helpful, what Brand truly wanted was to spend more time just walking together and enjoying Bluebright’s company. Brand realized as he’d been turning his thoughts to the lovely woman beside him, his hand had moved to touch the locket he always wore. The one bearing a single, faded image of his mother. The woman who had been everything and the centering force for Bain.
“There is wisdom in what you say, Bluebright,” Brand said, still looking at the locket. Then, turning his eyes to look into the deep blue wells of her eyes, he added, “But before I seek other counsel, maybe I could enjoy your company and the beautiful night a little longer?” Realizing that may have sounded forward, he added, “That is, if that’s okay with you. If you have other things to do…” and then he trailed off waiting for her response.
You have definitely seen the lithe woman waiting with you. There are not many of the Aryind in Mosval. As far as you know, there is only one other, the beautiful Jana Alami, who came from the west twenty some years ago with more gold and jewels than a princess' ransom and a local, Romny husband. Jana made something of a name for herself in Mosval as an oracle and seer, worshiping some strange "avatar" of the Mother -- whatever that means -- that no one in these lands had heard of before. Her wealth bought her a stately house in Vale Ridge and her foreign mysticism brought her some notoriety, but she was not truly welcome among the elite of Mosval.
The woman before you must be her daughter, Nissa. She shares little of her mother's much commented upon beauty, but her uncannily bright emerald eyes are quite striking. Her clothes also mark her as different -- loose trousers bound at the ankles with silk ribbons and a long tunic belted with what looks to be a sword? If it is, then it does not look like she is much of a seer either.
She dips her head with a quick nod. "Good afternoon, doctor. I am Nissa Alami."
Professor Brooks tips his hat to the young lady. "A pleasure, Lady Alami. I am Professor Brooks. I usually serve as a tutor to children of the Lord Reeve, though I expect that today's matter is something more serious. Have you any clue what we are here for?"
The Professor is tall and relatively well built, with no small amount of muscle filling out his well-tailored suit. A neatly trimmed mustache sits on his lip, a chain dangles from his waistcoat pocket, and one hand clutches a professional surgeon's kit, while the other holds a neat, slim cane. He carries no visible weapons, but when he moves, the tinkling of glass can be heard in his pockets, and his undercoat is unyielding, as if he is wearing armor of some kind underneath it.
"I fear I must also admit to ignorance, but given the nature of the request it may have something to do with our respective expertise."
I have a few speculations, but silence is often a better strategy. One should never overcommit.
She stands waiting quit stilly; it does not seem that she is given to nervous movement.
Baltor observed as the ants were migrating south.
Here we go again with the omens…
Since his time under the tutelage of Master Yorzan, the reading of the nature’s omens were his least favorite part. Baltor used to say that in a circle of five druids reading omens, there would be at least six different interpretations, and all of them would be correct. He dropped to one knee and watched again the ants, observing their chosen path among the pebbles, twigs and vegetation, he looked at the sun and to the four sacred trees.
Some druids, Baltor included, did not used to see the four trees as just a representation of the elements, but a representation of the seasons as well. The gnarled-root oak and the earth element represents the spring, when the riches from the soil empowers the plants and trees; the tall poplar and the air element represents the autumn, with its might winds; the red maple and the fire element represents the summer, for its scalding sun; and, the great willow and the water element represents the winter, when the water turns to ice and covers the land.
These ants are abandoning their home, seeking the unknown in the south. Such attitude means they are in peril, running from something… A danger in the north… the greenskins maybe? Are they planning to march to the south, making the good people of the land run from their rage towards the south? Maybe… but when?
Baltor looks again the red-autumn maple, lost for a moment in its beauty.
"There are dangers in the north, probably the greenskins. People will abandon their homes and run south. How much time do we have? Will they indeed march in the summer?"
Baltor looks at the Keeper with mixed feelings: if he was right in his prediction, all of them would have a hard time coming... if he was wrong, the Keeper would probably start one of his legendary long lectures.
Welby jogs up the stairs, taking two steps at a time to return to the task at hand. He intentionally bumps Darna with his shoulder as she retrieves a book, causing her to drop it. He gives her a playful wink before brushing his golden bangs out of his eyes. His sister, Pameel, had sent him to fetch a couple of ancient tomes. One by one he stacked them in his arms. He struggled to balance them as he turned to head back down the stairs.
If Welby were to tell someone that he wasn't a tad bit jealous of his sister's position in the society, he would be lying. She had always excelled in her scholastic endeavors. These thoughts were few and far between though because of the pride he had for how she had overcome such difficult circumstances, especially considering he was the cause. She had finally started to blossom into the woman he knew she was destined to be and he was her biggest fan.
He was deep in these thoughts as doors to the library burst open and the human male stepped in.
"Which one of you degenerates is the convict Welby?"
Welby drops the top book of his stack as his name is called out. He bends down and places the rest of the book on the step by his feet. "I am Welby sir. How may I be of assistance to the Provosts?"
Bluebright smiles slightly, recognizing in your attitude and voice both the knee-jerk prejudice you bear for the greenskins as well as the winsome desire for her. "Perhaps tonight, if you're still here," she replies. "Let's finish the dishes, then you'd better get off to talk to the Keeper."
You finish the dishes together in camaraderie, after which she walks with you into the godswood itself. You know enough to be guided by her way of moving; here, more than anywhere else, one should take care in how one walks, lest (supposedly) one sets in motion something that brings disaster to a farm, a village, or worse. The two of you arrive just in time to hear a very thoughtful, solid-looking dwarf clad in heavy armor which looks like it's made of stone speak to the plain-looking elf seated on the east bank of the eastern tributary stream. The dwarf says something about greenskins - in the summer.
----
'Long' is relative; most of the humans tend to think of his lectures as long, but the Keeper is, compared to most of the other elves you've met, positively reticent. He considers your explanation, then nods slowly. "The greenskins," he agrees slowly, as if with considerable reluctance. "Why they are moving ... I would give much to know. But the fact that they are thinking about it is, I think, a more pressing reason than as to why. When is a good question as well. You think next summer? That is a long time away; such an omen so far ahead of time would mean truly enormous events building up. I hope that is not the case, because I do not believe that Mosval would survive. Nor would any other town hereabouts - the Tor included." He scratches his chin thoughtfully, then turns his head to look at you with the uniquely piercing gaze he possesses. "Tell me what is wrong at the Tor."
"Yes, Acolyte," replies the halfling, getting your title right this time (though during a service, every celebrant is considered a divine, so he's not really wrong), and scurries off to tell the boy.
When you give your instructions to the young acolyte, Walli nods quickly. "Yessir. Not going home for the rest of the day?" To be fair, this is the first time Walli's performed a service with a real live petty-saint, much less a saint of any kind, so he's got a bit of that 'star struck' going on. He will, however, relay the message; he's got a good memory, at after all, it isn't very complex.
Kaspar, the boy seated there, pops up and hurries after you. "I don't know what's going on, sir, just that Mr. Alex just woke me up, sent me out the kitchen door and said to run get Gus, then come get the Learned what was celebrating morning service. I guess that's you, right?"
Though it's technically full daylight by the time you're done with the dawn ceremonies, heavy fog continues to shift and eddy around you like a host of lost souls. Despite the location of the Sword of Boram in Westgate, having the boy there to guide you to the place's front door is a boon; fog like this, you could lose your nose clean off your face. When you reach the inn, a heavy-set human male with a bit of a gut scowls down at you before nodding and letting you pass; clearly the aforementioned Gus, undoubtedly with a bad case of 'it's too damn early to be awake this damn early'.
Entering the main room, the reason for the early-morning summons is all but instantly presented. Alex, the owner of the inn and someone you know in passing, leans against the solid oaken bar, chairs still on its top, his arms crossed and his wolf-like eyes seeming haunted, horrified, fixed on the new centerpiece of the inn's public room.
Lydia, one of the three serving girls living in the Sword, lays sprawled on the centermost table. She is only technically clothed, as her blouse is torn open and her skirt shredded to the waist. Arms and legs have been spread and bound in what looks to be the most uncomfortable position possible, and ... well. Rape. And murder. A fancy dagger is driven to the hilt between the seventeen-year-old's breasts.
Abruptly, the door opens; a young woman looks in, one whom both of you recognize. Her name is Beatrice Curry, the grand-daughter of the Lord Reeve, and one of his assistants; seems she's got an early day of it today, just like you. She's lugging a sizeable portfolio case, such as is used for artwork, big sketchbooks, and the like. "Professor Brooks, Adhÿpiķ Alami," she greets the two of you. "Sorry to disturb you so early in the morning. If you'll follow me?"
Preceeding you down the hall, she leads you into the stables and carriage house of the Fortress; there is a four-horse carriage waiting, black as pitch but well-made. Beatrice goes to the door, opens it up, and hands her portfolio into someone waiting inside. "Sir, ma'am, if you will?" After you climb in, she closes the door behind you, clambers up onto the driver's box, and snaps the carriage into motion. She drives slowly and carefully, as befits the foggy nature of the morning.
Inside, in the middle of the forward-facing rear seat (leaving the two of you to sit next to each other on the rearward-facing seat), waits an old man - seventy if he's a day, pruned up and wrinkled, his hands clasping a cane as black as the clothing he wears, as black as the carriage in which you ride. "Professor Brooks. Lady Alami. Thank you for coming. Undoubtedly you are wondering why you have been rousted out of your home so early in the day."
It's the Lord Reeve himself, head of the Provosts.
The young man, who by his attitude and expression must be one of the dozen noble houses in the city, glances up at your face through the large rectangular rail-framed hole between the lower floor and that which you're on, the upper, and sniffs in derision. "Don't be absurd. You cannot have spent six months in prison, much less several honing any sort of craft. I do not appreciate such frivolities," he informs the membership below, "and any further delay will meet the most severe of penalties."
At this, the reactions from downstairs are several. Khofi leans back in his chair, his arms crossing; he has that cool expression you know he gets when he's on a knife's edge, waiting for the trap's other weight to drop. Davan glances aside at them, and murmurs something you can't catch; your sister snorts, and murmurs something back, Davan making a mark in the corner of his slate; probably a bet of some sort, Davan having always had a problem with gambling.
All of this is a backdrop to Sir Henry slowly pushing his way upright. "I'm sorry," he rumbles, "I'm a little hard of hearing on that side. Did you just call us degenerates, and then threaten us? Who do you think you are, you little sh!t? I don't care if you are a Valcone, I'll apologize to your father for breaking your skull the next time he asks me to tell the story of crushing the skull of Hakh Cho'Grek's worg with my hammer in front of Hawk River's gates eight years ago. Or - because, you know, hard of hearing - did I misunderstand something?"
"I - I - I --" The Provost stammers, clearly alarmed and uncertain how to handle a 6'6" ticked-off knight.
"I wish it was, boss," comes Arthur's voice. "But I'm right next door to ya. You got a headache too??"
Baltor listens carefully the Keeper’s words.
Hum… so the greenskins are INDEED thinking about moving south… troubled times ahead.
Baltor is brought back from his thoughts about the greenskins when the Keeper mentions the hearthstone.
"I wish I knew Keeper, I wish I knew… A couple of weeks ago, the Tor’s heartstone underwent a severe and inexplicable shift. I had never heard of anything like this before… it is like to say that the fishes suddenly decided to use their fins to fly instead of swim, or a brown bear forfeits meat to live solely of blueberries."
Baltor remembers when the night when he felt the shift of the heartstone. He was tending an ancient oak a couple of miles away of Kedren’s Tor. He run back as fast as his short legs could and when he saw the shift, he felt uneasy… the hair of the back of his head rose.
"I contacted both Jorvic and Dandalore and none of them knew a thing about it… The earth is silent also, at least to my ears and heart. Something is terribly wrong Keeper."
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[spoiler=The Crowsfoot Godswood]To say Brand was pleased that Bluebright had agreed to see him again that night would be quite the understatement. The remainder of the time washing dishes was spent in light conversations, shared smiles, and even a small bit of playfulness with Bluebright splashing him with dishwater.
As they walked together to see the Keeper, Brand knew that the time for light hearted chatting has passed. He pays attention to exactly the way she moves...well, in honesty, he was already paying attention to how her body moved...now however, he's paying explicit attention to where she steps, how she bends around overgrowth, when she steps more lightly, and he mimics all of these.
Brand is fully aware of the power in this area. It has been rare for Brand to enter this part of the Godswood, but he knows its significance and power.
As they draw nearer, he hears two voices. One is the familiar voice of the Keeper, a wise elf worthy of respect. The other voice is unfamiliar. Brand is fairly certain it is either a gruff-voiced human or a dwarf. Brand has not had extensive interaction with dwarves, but from what he has seen and learned of them thus far, he admires their steadfast nature.
It was certainly not Brand's intention to eavesdrop on someone else's conversation, but the voices are clear and easily heard, so he couldn't help but know what they're saying. From what he hears, they share his focus on the movement of the greenskins. He caught a bit about them perhaps moving in the summer. After that, the second speaker, whom he now saw was in fact a dwarf, said something about bears and blueberries. Brand respected those who could read the signs, but had no gift for it himself.
"I beg your pardon Keeper," Brand said, bowing low, "master dwarf," he added turning and bowing again. "I had been sharing my concerns with Bluebright about the movement of the greenskins in Ice Bay and of the infighting of the criminal groups there and we agreed it was news that should be brought to you."
He then added, in a tone that was more apologetic, "As we approached, I inadvertently heard some of your discussion, and it seems we share concern over the threat the greenskins pose."
In the back of his mind, Brand was hoping the Keeper might want to mobilize an excursion to investigate and that the wise elf might ask him to be part of that group. In another part of his mind, he was really hoping that if such a group were to be formed, that it wouldn't leave tonight. "Perhaps tonight, if you're still here," Bluebright had said...[spoiler]
Horst walks up to the table and looks at this girl splayed upon it, frowning.
The boy doesn't need to see this.
Kaspar, go back to the chapel. Have Walli send the cart over here and call for acolytes of the Mother and Daughter. Guide the acolytes back here when they arrive.
Waiting a few moments for the boy to leave, he looks up to the Innkeeper, taking his dagger from his belt.
Alex, help me cut the poor girl down. Leave the ropes on her wrists intact.
Horst mutters prayers to the Mother and the Daughter as he releases the body from it's bonds. He then spreads the tatters of her clothes aside to examine her body. He speaks to Alex without looking up.
Get a blanket please.
He examines the body, noting any wounds besides the fatal one, paying particular attention to bruises on the arms and legs that might give a clue to the size of her attacker.
Praying for her soul's ease and noting how all worldly suffering is forgotten in the Gods' realms, he places one hand upon the dagger and the other on the girl's chest. He pulls the dagger free with a sickening sound and examines it, hoping to gain some insight into it's maker.
When a maid comes with the blanket, he carefully lays it over the body.
Be at peace, child, and go softly to your rest.
He then mutters an incantation, laying an enchantment over the room.
He motions to a scullion for a rag, and wipes the blade clean. He ambles over to Alex, saying Alright. Tell me what you know.
Her mother taught Nissa many lessons, but the one that Jana Alami most stresses is control. Control of situations is often out of one's hands, but control of the self? To not be in control of one's self is the gravest of weaknesses.
Now, like always, Nissa finds control to be a burden. Certainly, Khadga is not making it lighter.
"He is not your better. He should speak to you as a peer," the black blade whispered in her mind.
Perhaps. Perhaps not, Nissa returned. He called. I came. He rules this city. My mother does not even rule Vale Ridge.
None of this conversation plays out over her face. It remains a mask of polite deference.
"Sardar, Lord of Provosts, I do not need to wonder for you will tell us what services you desire rendered."
Hopefully someone would come down to see them and he could negotiate his release one way or another.
The Professor frowns as the Lord Reeve makes his statement, then shakes his head. "Actually, my Lord, my thoughts were more focused on why you chose me, rather than a more talented healer or doctor, of which there are many. More specifically, I was wondering if it was, in fact, my services that you required, rather than those of my..." Brooks shoots a glance at the young woman in the carriage with them, unsure as to whether she can be trusted or not, before finishing his thought."...partner. If it is he whom you desire, a plethora of new questions arise, namely how you found out of my connection to him, and whether said connection will become a problem in the future."
Nissa blinks at the professor's outburst.
Do you have any idea what "partner" he is talking about or why their relationship could be considered a problem? Nissa queries her sword.
No, Khadga responds. Nevertheless, this doctor is a nervous fellow. You could not make toast off the heat that the Sardar was putting on the two of you. Asking him a leading question and he will confess all his crimes. Tell him no secrets.
Nissa considers the sword's advice. At least no secret that I do not want known.
After the lapse of the blink, Nissa tries to keep her visage as still as a hidden pool.
The Lord Reeve chuckles softly at Nissa's statement as he sways with the turning of the carriage, the rumble of the wheels crossing the drawbridge hollow beneath your feet. "Very good, girl. You've learned one of life's great lessons - patience can acquire for you what hot tongs could never. Be patient a bit more." His forefinger taps lightly, almost impatiently, upon the head of his cane. "I don't recall you being this nervous around me four years ago when we met after Beatrice's third lesson, Professor Brooks. Please take a moment to compose yourself." His cool gaze shifts sideways to Alami, then back to the professor. "Your ... partner, you call him? Very well. I am fully aware of your partner; I sent south for information about you the moment you took your first significant student. You would never have reached the second lesson with Beatrice if I'd not thought ... your partner ... to be sufficiently constrained, and had I thought him a serious threat, both of you would have been taken care of." The cool practicality in his eyes gives weight to the suggestion that his Provosts are occasionally of the active sorts.
"Now then, to work. A message arrived at the Fortress just before dawn, requesting the presence of a Provost to look into a murder; I know the writing of the man who sent the message, and he is not one to be so shaken. You, Professor," and his finger points like the needle tip of a rapier at the tall, leanly-muscled male, "are here because I do not need a physician, I need someone conversant with the science and nuances of violent death. You will learn everything there is to know about the situation within your span of knowledge; you will take every precaution known to you, every sample possible. I will add that you must not handle the murder weapon, whatever it is, with your bare hands, or clean the blood from it; Master Zoosken knows a spell that is able to send the victim's blood from the weapon who slew them to the one who spilled it, but it must be untouched. So. That is what you are doing here, Professor."
He turns his sharp, cool gaze back towards the swordswoman. "What I need of you, Ms. Alami, is relatively simple. You are here to keep an eye on him." The finger flickers at Brooks again, as if a rapier advancing on him. "You will stay with him, keep an eye on him. You are not his lackey, helping hand, or courier; you are here because I do not trust him. Should he ... do something peculiar, you will question him on it. If he does something exceedingly unusual without giving you forewarning, you will do whatever is necessary to secure the safety of the city and its people. Do I make myself understood??"
Hopefully he has, because barely a handful of seconds later the carriage rocks to a halt, the brake is set, and the driver clambers down from the box. The door opposite the side in which you climbed opens up. "We're here, grandfather."
"You're on duty, Beatrice."
"Sorry, my Lord Reeve."
"No matter, child. Don't forget your folio and the evidence case."
"Yessir."
To the two of you, the old man says, "Let us to work, then." He fishes into his pocket for a moment before producing a polished bronze badge, which he carefully arranges before allowing his granddaughter to help him out. The girl will help each of you if necessary before going into the compartment to retrieve her folio and a smaller box - the evidence case.
Outside, a heavy-set human male with a bit of a gut scowls down at the Lord Reeve before opening up the door into the building - a tavern by the name of 'The Sword of Boram.'
He shambles his way into the back, probably the kitchen, and emerges less than a minute later with a white cloth; looks like it might be a tablecloth or a bedsheet, which he (and you, if you help) spreads across her body. As a petty-saint, you can feel slight, vague answers to your prayers; the gist of the response to this one, felt deep within yourself, is that the girl has been granted rest. Logically, since so far as you know she's never been pregnant, the Daughter has probably taken her up, but you never know; could be the Mother. Well, that'll be displayed by the Miracle of the Animals for her ...
Alex, withdrawing back from the bound, but now shrouded, body, shakes his head. You have seen this before, the pain of a caring man who feels he must be strong for those around him. Alex is in a sort of shock as well, his expression more frozen than ever you have seen it. "Thank you for sending Kaspar back to the Temple. 'Mind me to have him stay there when he gets back, 'til someone comes to get him. Met Gus at the door, he's to let only you and the Provosts in. He doesn't know." He inhales slowly, then releases it; both movements are shaky. "He was going to ask Lydia to start walking out with him.
"Unfortunately, we have two guests upstairs; fortunately, they're both sleeping like bears, so we'll have plenty of warning when they wake up." He falls silent for a few moments, then repeats dully, almost as if to himself "We can't touch her any more than covering her, sir. The sniffers need to do their work." Alex refers, of course, to the investigators of the Provost's Guard.
As if on cue, a sound indicates that the outer door has opened; the inner door (usually blocked open for the length of the summer) opens from the cloak room. Assisted by a cane, through it steps carefully a dour-faced dried-up kernel of a man wearing a polished bronze Provost's badge, followed by a tall, leanly-muscled man, well but austerely dressed, carrying a surgeon's case and a cane; behind him comes a long-haired woman clad in loose trousers and a long tunic, decorated with ribbons and a martial-themed belt. Moments behind them comes a young woman - girl, really, no more than fifteen, but athletic - carrying a bulky cubical case in one hand and a larger flat 'folder' case in the other. The girl wears a Provost's badge like the old man; the other two humans do not.
Kernel-Face stops but a couple of steps inside the door, looking slowly around the room once and once only, but with the sort of suspicious gaze that is likely to miss only what is not actually within view.
"Very well," he states. Lifting a creased but wiry hand, he points a finger at Horst. "You." The finger moves to the bar, next to Alex. "Please step over there and take down a stool. Beatrice, sit and begin with a sketch of the room. Let your instinct pull your attention to things you should draw especially accurately. Who found the body?"
"I did," says Alex, finally moving to start pulling down stools though he doesn't sit on any of them. The girl, Beatrice, sets the bulky case down by the door, and goes over to the stool, extracting a large pad of rough-made and rough-bound paper along with a fat pencil. Swiftly, she begins sketching.
"Time of discovery?" The Provost remains standing just where he is.
"A little before dawn, perhaps a quarter-candlemark." Alex's expression is starting to flex, a sure sign of him feeling just too much of what's going on.
"Your name?"
"Alex. Alexander de Navan."
"Mmm. That wouldn't be Lieutenant de Navan, retired of the Warden Scouts, would it?"
The question manages to flick Alex out of his deepening sorrow for a moment. "Yes," he responds, and an old unused buried instinct kicks him into adding, "Yes sir."
"Mmm. Very well. Why don't you step outside, take that burly brute out there somewhere else?" The Provost fishes in an inner pocket, drawing out a coin and eyeing it. "Mmm, yes, that'll be fine. Come, Lieutenant, we can speak later; take your young man out there and go get stinking drunk. Try not to start any brawls, mm?"
Looking more poleaxed by the moment, misery at the loss of one of his surrogate daughters showing in his face, Alex takes the coin (an entire thumb, in fact) and exits. The Provost gestures for one of the two non-badged humans who came with him to latch the door, then turns to the dwarf. "Hmmm. You are Dedicate ... ? No, Acolyte, isn't it?"
"As you say, I will do, Sardar," Nissa replies calmly.
She considers Professor Brooks carefully. He has many facets it would seem . . .
Khadga interrupts her rumination. He is dangerous. I may need to cut him.
Many people are dangerous, Khadga. We will cut only those who must be cut. Violence is a tool to be used sparingly and only towards our purposes. For the moment, serving the Sardar, serves our purposes. We will watch the doctor and if he, or his unseen associate, cause problems, then we will handle them.
As they walk into building, she watches how the doctor moves to better predict his skill in combat.
The scene that awaits her both disturbs and excites her.
At the revelation that the Lord Reeve has known of Ham's existence for so long, Professor Brooks' frown deepens, then disappears into a more contemplative look. If the Lord Reeve knew of Ham for so long, and still allowed him to teach his grandchildren, then the likelihood of his fears coming true is relatively minimal. The lack of trust from His Lordship is somewhat stinging, but not surprising if the man knows of Ham's darker nature.
The professor's attention shifts to the woman who will be his minder for the duration of this job. The idea that she could stop Ham is... surprising. Ham actually finds it highly amusing, judging by the laughter ringing through his head. Brooks is more cautious, though, regarding the woman with a careful eye. She holds herself well, and her face displays nothing of her emotions- she has likely had training in proper etiquette. But she wears her sword well, and the callouses on her hands are clear, now that he looks for them. She has definitely had training in combat. Is it enough to stop or kill Ham? The professor doesn't know, and doesn't particularly care to find out.
Horst moves over to the bar and takes down a stool, standing next to it, staying out of the way of the old man and his attendants. He casts an eye over the body, shakes his head sadly, and looks to the man in black.
Acolyte. I've been with the church twenty and odd years, since I got the calling.
He pauses a beat before continuing.
That was a good turn you did Alex, Provost. He'll need that drink as much as Gus does. These girls are like family to him.
He looks back to the body.
She was a good girl...
"Well to be fair, blueberries are tasty," murmurs the ancient elf, trailing off as the human hunter speaks up. His head turns, and he looks past his shoulder towards Brand and Bluebright. "Is that so?" he asks, frowning. "What's going on up in Ice Bay, then?"
Once Brand conveys his knowledge, a matter of ten or fifteen minutes of conversation and questioning - primarily that a) rapid and violent growth of the smallest of the six criminal groups over the past year has turned it into the second-largest of them, and b) the greenskin presence in Ice Bay has grown from a proportion of about 30-35% to about 45% - the Keeper of the Wood sits there for a couple of minutes, thinking and occasionally scratching an itch here or there.
"Still doesn't explain anything," he finally decides. "More symptoms, no causes. Bluebright, can you go ask Nok Dha'Lek if he'll come here? I think we have a problem - all of us."
"Of course, Kubrik. I'll be right back." And with that, the woman turns, sort of ripples, and flows down onto all four hooves as she assumes the form of a wild pig. Off she trots through the bushes and vines, disappearing within moments.
Kubrik, for that is the name of the Keeper of the Wood, sighs and flops almost bonelessly onto his back, staring up at the leaves of the trees above him, his arms spread wide. "Bugger. I thought I was done with this sort of thing. Baltor, can you describe how the heartrock feels? Heavier? Thicker? Lighter? Ummm ... I don't know. Like it's trying to go somewhere, maybe? It used to be said that the ancients could move mountains with but a word of command ..."
As the ranger approaches and compliments him, Baltor nods before engaging in a quick conversation about the greenskins.
"So ranger, looks like our paths crossed in the most appropriate place! Oh, and I am no master… I’m Baltor Stonehart from the Tor, a simple servant of the earth under your feet."
Icy Bay… its been a long time since I travelled by those roads… Maybe I should pay it a visit when the more pressing matters are solved.
Baltor observes as Bluebright turns into a wild pig and leaves, looking for Nok Dha’Lek.
Looks like you are still gracious with your wildshapes, girl… even though I think a fawn would be more appropriate, at least I think the ranger would enjoy it more.
"Now that you mention, Keeper, it the heartstone indeed seamed lighter, almost as if the earth core lost its interest in keeping it on the ground… but it was also resisting… almost as if it wanted to be left alone." Baltor looks through the keeper, with eyes lost in the distance. "The Ancients… its been a long time since I last heard about them or any of their deeds…" Baltor focus his eyes in the keeper again. "Master Kubrik, what is your fear?"
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"Well met, Baltor Stoneheart of Tor," the ranger greeted the dwarf. "I am Brand Philogynne, son of Bain Philogynne, Caravan guard as well as hunter of greenskins."
Brand notices Bluebright's form shift as she is sent off on an errand by the Keeper.
What marvels and mysteries that woman possesses. Please tell me I'll still be here tonight.
Brand realizes he got caught up in watching her leave for a moment and realizes his hand had, once again, drifted up to his locket. He turns his attention back to the Keeper and the dwarf, Baltor.
They're discussing something about the weight of something. The heartstone? It seems a grave scenario, and Brand's thoughts on this are echoed as Baltor asks, "Master Kubrik, what is your fear?"
The half Elven woman smirks and chuckles to herself before looking around to see where it is she has woken up.
"Don't mind me that laugh wasn't aimed at you, but ah . . . any idea why we're locked up here together? I watched you carry that young girl upstairs, but I don't recall us meeting up after that."
"Come to think of it . . . I don't really remember much of anything from last night . . . Well I do have some reminders."
"Who's Arthur? Were you pulling a three way or something? Heh heh I'm kidding."
Burhul's simple undergarments come on quickly and as he pulls his pants on, Burhul's ears find some relief in the presence of female company. Not that he'd really be able to enjoy it, but it made some part of his male psyche a little less agonized about being imprisoned. He wonders how many cells away she is and then grows more concerned as he thinks about the possible number of cells and thus the depth of these dungeons. It was impossible to tell with these stone walls. He stiffly hobbles to the iron grated window on the door and peers out to see if he can figure out where Arthur and the mysterious new female.
Burhul chortles, "No, no, Arthur is just my valet. I'm somewhat surprised they took him too, but I suppose he did walk into the tavern with me last night. Though I'm sure talking about such licentious acts entertains him." He pauses a beat and takes on a much more curious tone, "But one of the other taverngoers is imprisoned here with me, eh? Someone wanted us both in here at the same time, but I'm not sure I recognize your voice. Who are you then?"
Welby is able to catch himself right before he bursts into laughter at his friends' responses and the Provost's humiliation. He imagines three or four witty responses before thinking better of it. No sense in bringing trouble down on the society. He hops down the rest of the stairs and stands with his arms relaxed.
"Easy guys. I am sure the Provost has a perfectly good reason to visit us today." Welby looks the piggy-eyed young man right in the eyes. "As I mentioned earlier, I am Welby. How may I help you today?"
"I meant your name, Acolyte. Though I should know you ... ah. IronBrow, isn't it? You have a forge on Thorncliff street, teach the new recruits in the Rangers basic arms and armor care. You knew the victim, then? A female? What was her name?" He ponders the scene, walking slowly around the table, pausing to look through the curtained doorway nearest the bar, then requests of Professor Brooks, "This seems to be the kitchen. Professor Brooks, if you can find as many low-quality rags back there, and Miss Alami, of your graciousness, find three buckets - one keep empty, two fill with water. Please bring them back here for the Professor to use; the last place next to Beatrice."
As the two retrieve what is necessary, he continues his slow circuit of the table, pausing at the stairway and peering upwards; there are multiple sounds of snoring coming from above. By the time the buckets are ready, two other whipcord Provosts arrive, one taking up station just outside the front door, the other stepping inside. "Examine the back yard and the stables," the man is told, "and send to the nearest guard post for a wagon and a driver. I'd like everyone upstairs to be taken into custody." The man nods, and moves back through the front door, to pass instructions along. "Miss Alami, if you'll stand your post by the stairs; I apologize, but double-duty for you. I would prefer that if any of those above wake up and seek to escape, they find a hot greeting on this end."
The wrinkles of the man's face set with a sort of bleak finality. "Now. Professor, let's see what happened to the young lady." He gestures for the Professor to take up the corner opposite him, and the two draw the cloth off the body. Moments after, Beatrice is putting the bucket to use. He, however, still stands as he was, letting the cloak fall to the floor as he examines the grisly scene with only his gaze at the moment. "Hm. I find this ... hm. Beatrice, when you're through, if you would be so good as to bring that case over here ... ? Professor, all evidence samples are to be noted and placed in seperate boxes from the case ..."
With a dagger thrust to its hilt in her chest, the girl has clearly been murdered. From her spread legs and shredded (some torn, some cut) clothing, it's blatantly obvious she was raped as well. From the arch of her body, wrists tied in what is clearly uncomfortable, if not outright torturous, manner to the legs of the table on which she is spread, it wasn't a short scene. Everything else is up to you to determine ...
Sir Henry turns and looks over at you descending the staircase, then looks back at the Provost. "Must've misheard you, then." He completes his turn, and heads back to the table, where he looks at what Davan put onto the slate; with an exasperated expression, he rubs out the mark with his thumb. The half-elf isn't offended, and merely laughs under his breath.
Your timely rescue couldn't have been made to a better guy. No, really. Don't believe me? That's okay, didn't expect you to. The young Valcone straightens himself up a little raggedly, though if eyes could kill Sir Henry's would be sprouting an entire field of daggers. "You are the convict Welby? Hmph. I suppose I should have expected a halfling convict to be on the short list for lockpicks. Oh, I'm sorry," he says with blatantly false apology, "a security consultant. Well, gather whatever you will need for such a consult, convict Welby, the Lord Provost himself is waiting. Why he would send for you I have no idea ..."
An unexpected twitter and bit of movement comes from Sir Henry's shoulder; Harley flutters, then pops off the giant's shoulder and swoops over to land upon your own. Maybe she has an idea why you were selected!
From presumably another cell, yet another groan adds itself to the noise. "Blood and martyrs," comes a young voice, "what did I drink last night??" Hayden at least will recognize the voice of the young man she'd spent the night with. Or at least the start of the night.
"Fear? MY fear is that decades of work in settling the forest and the mountains and even the plains far to the north will be undone. The echoes of the Endwar still linger in the bones of the earth, and they leach from rock into water, into the plants that draw it up. The godswood is sacrosant; only the most crazed or desperate will seek entry into a godswood or godsring that turns away visitors, and those that do are sure to not need a second lesson - corpses don't learn. But war performs destruction upon the lands influenced by a godswood, and that destruction is, in time, echoed within the godswood; as beyond, so within, to steal a saying. The old elf watches the patterns of the leaves above him for a time, then sighs. "I fear war. I fear the destruction of war. The stupidity of it. The uselessness of it. But in every forest, a little fire must burn ..."
Though he falls silent for a little while more, time moves ahead, one grain falling after the next, and soon comes the returning full-fleshed form of Bluebright, on foot as she guides two orcs to the center of the godswood. The first is a very, very sizeable black orc, clad in skins which, though they look crude, move very well with him; the second is a smaller, more standard orc, wearing a robe not unlike Bluebright's but carrying over his shoulder what looks to be ... actually, neither of you are sure what it is. Two feet long and one foot round worth of stone, attached to the end of a four-foot length of sturdy wood. The smaller of the two orcs carries it with the unconscious ease of one who has borne the item for quite a while, and has gotten used to its weight. "Kubrik, I have brought Nok Dha’Lek - as well as one called Thoq, who has recently arrived."
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In a calm and intensely quiet voice, Brand speaks. "Keeper, with all due respect, I cannot see how listening to the poison coming forth from the source of our concern will get us any closer to solving this problem."
Looking at the oncoming orcs, moving along with the dear, trusting form of Bluebright, Brand continues with quiet intesity, "Bluebright, are you alright? I swear if either of these brutes have laid a filthy finger on you they'll soon learn why these axes are named hidefinder and greenskinner."
After foreseeing such a dark future, a moment of silence is welcome to put the mind back in its place and prepare yourself to some hard decisions. He watched as Bluebright returned with the greenskins and how Brand the ranger reacted. After a deep breath, Baltor walked calmly until the stays between Brand and his hated foes.
"Please, drop your famed axes, look around and remember the wise words from the Keeper, master Brand… no one could enter the sacred Crowsfoot Godswood unless allowed by the Keeper." He pauses for a moment to ensure that the ranger was listening to him. "These men are guests and should be treated the same way you were by the lovely Bluebright." Baltor gestures to the woman. "Just like not all fruits are sweet, also not all mushrooms are poisonous. These man are not your enemies in the same way that not all elves, dwarves and humans are your allies."
Baltor kept a calm and relaxed face during the confrontation for he knew everything was under the control of Master Kubrik.
Everything is a lesson to you my friend, isn’t it?
Yes. I'm IronBrow.
Horst's dwarvish stoicism constrains his reaction to a faint rueful wince as the corpse is uncovered. He looks back to the old man, but then glances back to the body, approaching the table.
This is... was... Lydia. She was nineteen.
Hands crossed behind his back, he peers at the pommel of the knife, then leans down to look under the table. He comes back up, keeping his distance from the body, but examining the knife's blunt end intently.
Provost... he says, inclining his head toward the knife. Do you see this?
As Nissa fetches the buckets, Khadga revels in needling her.
So much for not being a helping hand. First buckets, then what? He will make a lackey of you yet.
For once, Nissa does not have a quick retort. The room stinks. It stinks of blood, but also of terror and of power. Something she struggles to keep locked up deep within her soul seems to thrill at the latter. It is obvious that the poor woman was raped before she died. Self-loathing fills Nissa even as some predatory part of her awakens to the stink of fear.
In an effort to distract herself, Nissa focuses on trivialities.
The Lord of Provosts is not a man of his word. That is all, Khadga. We have learned more about the shape of his honor. Sadly, it is lacking. To break his word so quickly after it has been given, he brings shame to this city and to his office. With his words as useless as the eastern winds, it is a marvel that he survived this long. He will not find me so easy to kneel. . .
Those knots are nautical, Khadga interjects, interrupting her tirade.
What would you know of either the sea or its knots?
I know many things, the sword retorts smugly. Right now I know those are shoddy nautical knots.
Nissa quickly decides how to put this information to use. It is time to cement allies among the younger generation, since the elderly seem intent on being found wanting.
She leans close to Beatrice's ear as she hands her an empty bucket and whispers.
"Collect yourself, my student. Even when the typhoon rages within you must be as calm as still waters. The knots used to bind her are poor nautical knots. She was close to escaping when she was stabbed. Use this insight. Be impressive."
Without outward complaint, Nissa stands where she can keep one eye on the professor and another on the stairs. Despite the typhoon within, she appears like untroubled waters.
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Lowering his axes, but not his eyes, he said, "Well spoken, friend Baltor. I have encountered the cruelty and butchery of the greenskins far too often and am afraid I may have acted rashly and inappropriately. My apologies for acting this way in your grove, Keeper."
Shifting his gaze to fall specifically on Bluebright, he added, "I fear I may have let my emotions control my actions more than my wisdom," he then added to Baltor, though not looking away from Bluebright, "Thank you for your wisdom, friend. Truly we should be seeking solutions, not causing more problems."
The words sounded more fitting to the situation, though Brand was reluctant to speak almost every one. The lowered stayed out but lowered and the ranger shifted to be closer to Bluebright while making more space for the orcs to approach.
Welby reaches into his pocket and pulls out a morsel of bread for Harley. He feeds his feathered friend and taps her on the head before responding to Valcone. "As a security consultant, I would kindly ask that you just call me Welby sir." He turns and gathers his belongings before walking over to Pameel and then bending over to kiss her on the top of her head. "Keeps these hooligans in line sis." He motions to Sir Henry. "Especially that one."
Welby walks back over the the Provost and give his friends a grand bow. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do until I return." He walks to the door and awaits his escort. Ugly ass escort that is. He sends the mental thought to his pet bird, imagining that she could hear and understand him.
Professor Brooks moves to examine the girl's body, making no sign that he has heard any of the conversation made by the others. He examines the girl closely, starting with her head and face, then moving on to the torso, and finally examining the genitals. His face is stern and solemn, but occasionally his mouth or eyebrows twitch as, unknown to any observers, Ham makes a particularly cruel snark in his mind and he is forced to restrain his anger at his counterpart's sadistic glee regarding the poor girl's fate.
When the examination is complete, the professor straightens and turns to the Lord Provost.
"The girl was poisoned, probably by accident, with some form of sleep agent, and later given the antidote before her rape. The intended victims of the poison were, most likely, the sleeping guests upstairs, probably as a method of avoiding witnesses. During the rape itself, her mouth was kept covered, presumably to muffle screams, and her hair was pulled hard enough to draw blood. She received numerous blows to her head and face, breasts, body, and stomach area. Judging by the angle of the blade, the killing blow was either set up ahead of time, or the killer was directly on top of her when he delivered the dagger. Lastly, while I'm not certain, I suspect that she either had multiple rapists, or had engaged in coitus earlier in the day. If it would not interfere with anything, it would be beneficial to clean the body, that I may make another examination for anything which may be concealed by the blood."
Brooks' voice is professional and brusque, displaying little of his earlier nervousness as he devotes himself fully to the task at hand and the job for which he has been hired. He will no doubt require a stiff drink later, but for now, he is able to put his nausea, and even Ham's jibes, to the back of his mind and focus on the job at hand.
Horst listens to the bespectacled man give his report, noting both his thoroughness and the academic fashion in which he describes the girl's violation and death.
Here's a cold fish Horst thinks. Or maybe he just plays his cards close to the vest while he's on the job.
He points at the pommel of the dagger.
Look here. Fresh tool marks on the back of the blade, which went through Lydia, the table, and two inches out the bottom.
Have your people look for a hammer, or even a rock.
Professor Brooks raises an eyebrow at Ironbrow's statement.
"That seems to imply that the girl was intentionally staked to the table, rather than simply stabbed as a means of killing her. Presumably, this was to deliver a message to somebody. Have you any idea what that message might be?
The dwarf frowns.
I wondered about how this could have happened without waking the whole place up. Petty-saints can make an area silent, but no servant of the gods would do this. I feared Sorcery.
He turns to look at the Professor.
When you said this was alchemy, I was a bit relieved (though I don't like the idea of anyone with a few bottles and beakers doing something like this).
He turns back to the body, his eyes narrowing, his frown deepening.
But a message? I can't think what Alex might have done to earn a message like this. Perhaps a message to the Provosts that the killer can do as they please.
Horst crosses his arms over his chest and grumbles for a moment.
Perhaps a message to the gods. A plea for a miracle: Death Magic.
He makes the Sign of the Five Gods (forehead, lip, navel, groin, and heart).
Brooks shakes his head.
"She didn't necessarily do anything to earn the message. It would have been directed at somebody else, probably somebody who would have taken the killing particularly badly, or simply someone who would recognize it for what it was, if it was aimed at an individual. Was the girl particularly close to anybody with enemies of the sort who would do this? That seems the most likely possibility, to my mind."
Horst strokes his beard absently.
"Lydia's only family was Alex and the other girls. They're pretty enough, and men filled with liquor will lay hands on, of an evening, but she had no enemies, as I could tell, or as far as anyone told me."
"As for Alex, he was a Lieutenant in the Scouts in his youth, which made him more friends than anything else, and stopped more trouble than it started, as he has a reputation as a man not to be trifled with. I've seen rowdies tossed out, but would they have the means, knowledge, or inclination to do this?"
"Gus was sweet on Lydia, and he was the one who did the tossing out and peacekeeping for Alex. A little man looking for revenge on a big fellow? A rival for Lydia? I couldn't say."
"Truth be told, I can't say as I know anybody in this part of town who could put this potion together, or afford to have someone do it for them."
"I'll tell you for free, though..."
He gestures toward the body.
"To do this, somebody had a lot of anger. A lot of hate."
Burhul quizzically asks Arthur, "Curvy Muscles? Arthur, have you seen this woman we're talking too?"
Burhul tries to peer out his prison door window to find the source of the new voice, but to no avail. He sits back down wishing he had a scotch to dull his aching head, but then again, that's what got him into this mess in the first place. He replies to the freshly awakened boy, "Either you had too much to drink last night, or someone poisoned you with something else. Seems to be a growing trend in this particular prison. On another note, any of you reckon we're in Mosval? Can't remember if we made it already or not."
Burhul rubs his forehead. He'd had hangovers before and this felt like most of the others, but when Arthur brought it up, he'd gained the sinking suspicion that it was the lingering effects of poison. That tavern wench was good. It should have been obvious to him, but he couldn't remember enough of last night to really know for sure.
Though Beatrice gives Nissa a wary, sideways glance at her weapon instructor's murmur, she continues to sketch, and hops down from her stool to describe in charcoal the twists and tucks of the girl's bindings. Once down, she tries to emulate the detached air of both the Professor and her superior officer, though all the adults in the room can tell she's having a tough time of it. The old man doesn't send her out, though, and she continues on, sketching the first several steps of the stairs up to the second story, where at least two, maybe three or four voices snore in contented disharmony.
As first Brooks, then Horst, vocalize their observations, he hmms, brow beetled and eyes moving slowly down the details of the girl's debasement. "Perhaps one of the ones over by the hearth," he suggests to Horst. "And don't be so quick to claim all goodness and light for the gods' servants; the worst villain I've ever run across was a petty-saint, pious as anything, but ..." He pauses, then shakes his head. "Never mind. I'd rather not dwell on those memories." He nods to Brooks' request to clean the girl up, adding, "That's what the water and rags are for, Ted. Remember, don't touch the dagger with your bare hands. In fact ..." He frowns for a moment, staring at the offending blade. "I think it would be best to remove it before proceeding. Professor, there should be several large pieces of cotton gauze in the evidence case, to both keep your hands from touching it and to wrap it up. An oilskin in there, as well, for a final wrap."
"First, though, bring it here," he thumps the table at which he's sitting. "Master IronBrow, can you take down these other chairs? We'll clear the base of the weapon and see if there's a maker's mark for you to be able to look up." Beatrice pauses by his side to flip through several of the drawings, which he examines thoughtfully; at one of them, his eyebrows lift, and his eyes shift to regard Nissa for a long moment, after which he gives a very slight nod - or, if the length of time that it is held is to be correctly regarded, a very subtle bow.
"Today's the sixteenth, so nothing that starts with the letter 'P' that we can't find somewhere else in the alphabet," comes Darna's voice.
"But prostitution starts with ... oh, wait, whoring!! Oh, good, for a minute there I was worried ..."
The Valcone scion walks, straight-backed, out of the house as he follows you; it's pretty clear his honor as a noble has been mortally offended, but his rôle at the moment is that of a provost, and as such he can't properly take offense. Once outside the house, he stalks off at a clip that's a bit fast for you, undoubtedly intending on forcing you to have to push yourself into an undignified trot to keep up with his lead.
Of course, of the others the massive black orc has more eyes for the human with the axes who is ever so ready to use them. Less than a hand short of seven feet in height, Nok Dha'Lek holds his hands low, curved and open, his shoulders bunching slowly up as if ready to swipe at Brand and bowl him ass-over-teakettle before falling upon him like a massive branch. While Baltor speaks, the black orc holds the ranger's gaze, poised to respond to violence offered. It wouldn't be the first time blood has been shed in the Grove - not even the first time this year. Violence is, after all, a part of nature - and though the grove can protect itself from those who would destroy it, it can do nothing against those who have differing opinions on what might be done within it.
Bluebright starts to move between the two of you, the ranger / caravan guide and the black orc druid from the north, but with a twist of his wrist, Nok's wide-spread fingers press against her heavyset form, preventing her movement. Sure, that might hinder his initial defense, but if push comes to shove, he looks pretty certain that things'll be up close and personal very soon thereafter.
And then Brand talks about cruelty and butchery.
"Humans," he says in a deep, rich bass voice that sets bones in your chests shivering with sympathetic vibration, "humans wipe out questing parties without cause, on mere suspicion. Humans destroy greenskin trade caravans with no knowledge but that a human caravan, bound for the north, has been picked clean of worthwhile goods and animals, not caring that their humans ignorantly fled the approach of a peaceable but wary trading column, heavy with guards - and the foolish humans fell victim to the dangers of the wilds through which both travel. Humans fall upon goblin alchemists and their apprentices, upon orc hamlets while their hunters are away, and raze them to the ground, leaving alive not a buck or doe or skittering bolkin." Without looking away, Nok spits to the side. "Talk to me of cruel greenskin butchery again, human, and you best be doing so with your axe already on its way."
"Peace, Keeper Nok," soothes Bluebright, taking a half-step backwards to ease the black orc's desire to move her, but laying her hand on his forearm. "He is ... a male," she concludes wryly, glancing over towards Brand. "A solo male, more familiar with the dominance challenge than the cooperative hunt. The dwarf has the right of it, does he not?"
Nok Dha'Lek grunts, and shifts his shoulders, keeping his eyes on Brand for a moment more before turning to speak to the orc at his side - who is no longer there.
Instead, while the two alpha males were having their staredown, the other orc stepped aside from it, and simply walked around it. Now he leans against the butt end of the six-foot-long stone-headed thing the head planted in the stream against a ripple of rock over which the water runs, leaning against it with both of his hands, his throat pressed lightly against the back of them as he looks down at the Keeper of the Wood. Kubrik, still wide-eyed and propped up on his elbows, speaks with the orc in a language sounding slow and inevitable, like a rising tide or a shift of a mountain.
The four of you turn to look and listen, if only for a moment, before Nok barks, "Hey! Speak a civilized language, why don't you - like Geh." This last is said with a dark sideways glance at Brand, as if challenging him to argue that Geh-Sahn isn't civilized. As if either of them should know ...
The orc and the elf turn, blink at the four of you, then look back at each other. "I am sorry," says the old elf, pushing himself up into a sitting position, then climbing to his feet with the assistance of the greenskin's hand. "Thoq is a ... fellow-traveller that I ... wasn't expecting to see here. He brings news. And I think, if the posturing is done between the two of you children," adds Keeper Kubrik, drawing a scowl from Nok, "That we should go back to my home and talk. And so I can let my shoes dry."
The orc Thoq laughs, surprisingly mellifluous, and helps the old elf out of the stream, saying another something in that language. Kubrik snorts laughter, and adds, "I guess you're right - if you don't want to get wet, don't go out into the weather. Come. Bluebright, please have some strong tea sent to my quarters? And a quarter-keg of smallbeer for Nok and Baltor to share."
An hour later, undoubtedly with much sniping between Nok and Brand, if not between Nok and Baltor as well, the problem is laid out. The greenskins are moving - and it isn't out of the Trollheim Godswood, of which Nok Dha'Lek is the Keeper of the Wood, but into Trollheim and Kelshin Rock Godsring's domain. Nok came south out of justifiable concern for this; while there are many scores of tribes and clans of greenskins that roam across the hundreds of square miles up there, hunting wild deer and moose and bear (one of the grizzly sort of the latter of which lumbers about, following Nok around), tending herds of other sorts of deer, reindeer and their larger caribou cousins, hunting with hawks and living as their ancestors have for ten times ten times ten times ten wheels of the seaons, other tribes from further north have been migrating into their territory.
And what information Thoq has brought (Thoq, who speaks only in that other language, and so must be filtered through Kubrik) suggests that the cause is not natural, but singular. "An ancient kolshi'ichanth mage-lord stirring," the Crowsfoot Keeper breathes, staring at the wood of the round table about which the five of you sit - Bluebright not having been invited, alas.
Nok flexes his hands slowly, focussed on them and clearly irate at the problem. "We of Trollheim have always made sure that the old ways are followed. That Fire and Water, Air and Earth are kept in balance and respect. That those who might follow the ways of men," and here he makes a spitting motion to the side, unconscious and habitual, but without actual spittle, "find their way to the cities, to learn what they must to bring honor and strength to their tribes. But now - now even they are being corrupted. If I could go harrowing again, I would find this kha-phecht, this waterform, and rend it apart with my own claws. But without me there, keeping the wildkin leashed to one purpose and walking among the clans, they chafe and think instead on who will lead." He gives Brand a glower. "I don't want them down here any more than you do. But I cannot seek this thing that drives them from their rightful ranges, and the tribes will reach a breaking point soon."
"How soon?" asks Kubrik.
Nok grunts again. "With the first buds of spring, at the very least. Before the first snows, if the gods are unkind."
Kubrik lets out a slow, reluctant breath. "So much for next summer," he says to Baltor. "But a fully-awakened kolshi'ichanth mage-lord ... could tear apart Kedron's Tor without coming within a hundred leagues of the place, if the heartrock is heeding its call. Finding it before it wakes ... is our only chance."
The Professor's eyes narrow slightly at the name "Ted," but he says nothing, and moves to the evidence box to retrieve the gauze and oilskin, then carefully removes the dagger from the body and gives it to the Lord Provost, before going about the business of cleaning the girl's body of blood.