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It is foolishness to try to understand the thinking of the Pactmasters of Katapesh, yet even more foolhardy to defy their will.
A small group travels in a caravan through the desert of Katapesh, one week out of Solku. The journey has been grueling, with danger wearing the most tedious of masks: heat, exhaustion, and thirst. Three days ago, the older priest of Sarenrae was killed by a scorpion in his tent, leaving only his acolyte to continue on this mission.
The task awaiting will be difficult. The caravan is led by Garavel, major domo to the merchant princess Almah Roveshki. Almah seeks to reclaim the lost village of Kelmarane, once a critical trading center on the way to Osirion, now overrun by gnolls.
The caravan is nearing a landmark known as The Sultan's Claw, where Almah awaits. In the haze to the west, the outline of Pale Mountain can be made out in the fading evening light, rising from the horizon like a pale tombstone.
Not for the first time, Reza ibn Tarsa adjusts his talaba, his hand coming away slick with sweat, even under the relative shade of a wayward cloud. He shifts his weight, the mare beside him twitching at the movement. Tarsa runs a hand down the beast's neck, his affection obvious from the grin on his face.
"Now, now, my friend," he says, his voice made harsh by the week on the road from Solku. "Almost there. And once we get you there, yes, a proper rub-down for you, and for me..." he looks up to the sky, as the cloud clears away. With it gone, the full blaze of the sun strikes him and he covers his dark eyes with a gloved hand. "For me, well, Blessed One, I'd appreciate you looking away for a few hours, or sending some rain." He makes a gesture of praise and worship to Sarenrae, his goddess, then sighs.
Dark skin darkened further by days in the sun, Reza ibn Tarsa is no small man, though he looks decidedly thinner than he would likely prefer. I've lost my water weight, that's for sure. Looking around at the rest of the caravan, he checks to make sure his sister Lyria is alive and well, and then at the rest of the weary band.
"Evening approaches, my friends," the Faris says. "We should get ready to move as it cools." He adjusts his pack on the back of the horse, and then the straps of his armour, partially hidden beneath his robes. "And hope nothing else goes wrong..." he mutters this last under his breath.
"Almost there... Finally..." A young man huffed, wiping his brow. "Thank Desna that we made here alive. Though I wish I could say same for the poor late priest..." He sighs, shaking his head. He turns to the others that Garavel had assembled together, his attention more so on the elf.
"So, uh... Since we'll be working together I think some introductions are in order. My name is Novid Sazmeddr, newbie pathfinder and hopefully a future chronicler for the society." Novid offers his hand to the elven lady frist, before doing the same with others. "I'll be taking notes and trying to unearth the mystery of what caused the abandonment town of Kelmarane."
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As he settles the saddlebags and backpack on his horse. Durandel hears the young bard, Novid, introduce himself to the elf. He settles his father's rapier again on his belt, the weight of it is becoming more familiar.
Looking to the ground where he had endured the day to see if there was anything forgotten on the ground. In these lands there would be little hope of finding the campsite again.
Picking up the reins of his horse he headed closer to the group.
"Sarenrae tests us all, yet the tests are not all the same." a man mutters to himself as much as anyone else.
Of all the members of the caravan, Tariq is the only one for which the heat and oppressive conditions seem not to touch. He does not perspire in the heat and wears the armor and tabard proclaiming him to be a priest of Sarenrae easily. Yet for all of that, he might be carrying the heaviest burden of all.
It was his companion, teacher and longtime friend who lost his life to the scorpion's venom. And with that death, it seems as if the weight of a small world had landed squarely on shoulders.
He is not unfriendly, though at this time, in his grief, his thoughts are elsewhere.
An elf in these parts is odd, a young elf in these parts seemed an impossibility, but one traveled with them out of the city of Katapesh. Small and thin and looking like a teenaged human, she never seemed to stray far from her brother. In and of themselves, the two were an oddity, human and elf siblings. The rumour being whispered about the caravan was that the man she called brother may have been half-elven, but that was quickly quelled by her seemingly sharp ears. The small elf nearly bit the head off one of the guards as he spoke about her brother. She told him to mind his own business, to which a second guard said, “the small dog always barks the loudest.”
Causing the others to laugh and only making the elf more angry. Her hands moved quickly in an odd pattern as she spoke some strange words, but before she could finish what she was doing her brother forcefully, but gently grabbed her hands. The elf looked up at her brother in shock, her spell ruined. He muttered something to her and a look of regret and shame dominated her fine features.
“Sorry.” She said.
Her brother responded only loud enough for her to hear, but it was obvious what he said, as he motioned toward the guard she had focused on. The elf’s shoulders sunk and she exhaled as she looked at the ground and clenched her fists. Releasing her clenched fists, she marched over to the guard who made the comment.
“I’m sorry!” She said, almost as a command.
“For what little one?” He asked seeming almost oblivious, but everyone had notice her creating water out of thin air and the fact that she never seemed to sweat or wore more clothing than seemed appropriate for the heat. It had been a topic of another rumour, that the girl was some kind of witch.
The elf’s face reddened and was about to to say something that most likely should not to be repeated in polite company, but then she got a devilish look in her eyes.
“I’m sorry for almost burning you to the bone, I should not have wasted such a spell on the likes of you.” She said and turned to walk away, as though the matter had been concluded.
“I hope you have the power you claim,” Said the guard in a matter-of-fact kind of voice loudly enough for the departing elf to hear, but then added. “Because then you may actually be useful where we’re going, little one.”
Again the other guards laughed, and the elf’s anger was once again visible through her reddening face. In absolute frustration, the girl lunged at the guard with balled fist, but again her brother was ready. This time he carried her away from the guards, eliciting a greater amount of laughter that almost covered the sounds of her complaints.
That was near the beginning of the journey, and the girl had been quiet since, staying only in the company of her brother. As the final day of their arrival approached, a human male approached the elf girl.
"So, uh... Since we'll be working together I think some introductions are in order. My name is Novid Sazmeddr, newbie pathfinder and hopefully a future chronicler for the society." Novid offered his hand to the elven lady frist, before doing the same with others. "I'll be taking notes and trying to unearth the mystery of what caused the abandonment town of Kelmarane."
The girl seemed more shocked at being talked to than anything else.
“Um... pleased to meet you.” She said, shaking his hand lightly. “I am Lyriah Tyrraheal. I am a novice of the wizarding arts, and that’s my brother Reza. We’re both here looking for someone close to us.”
Novid smiled warmly as Lyriah accepted his hand. "Pleasure to be working with both of you and your brother. I'm sure we'll accomplish many great things together and I'll be sure to write all down." He chuckled, brushing some loose hair to the side. "I do hope that you'll be able to find the person you are looking for. If you need any assistance, I'll be happy to help you both."
He turned to Lyriah's brother, Reza, offering his hand to the man as well. "I must say though... It does seem odd that the two of you are siblings. Not that there is anything wrong with that mind, it's just that you don't tend to see such relationships often." Novid gave a nervous chuckle, hoping he didn't offend. Not after witnessing Lyriah's anger at the beginning of the trip. It was a fault of his to speak his mind, often without thinking of any trouble it would cause.
Shaking himself out of his private abstraction, the tall, bald priest of Sarenrae becomes rather more animated, his voice once again full and resonant.
"Forgive my rudeness, please. I should not have allowed myself to be so distracted. Please allow me to introduce myself; I am Tariq ibn Fadil Al-Fulan, Acolyte of Sarenrae."
"The priest who was stung, Fadil, and I had been dispatched to Kelmarane to purge and reconsecrate Sarenrae's temple there, though it has been long abandoned. Furthermore, our order once had a monastery not far out of town, that we were to reclaim, cleanse, and make ready for others of our order once more. Now those tasks fall to me to complete."
"If there is anything I may do for any of you, to make the journey to Kelmarane easier, please do ask."
It seems to those who look on, that as Tariq speaks aloud of the tasks ahead and of his mission, he is reminding himself of his duties as much as informing others. And, though some might find it odd, he seems to take comfort in the challenges ahead rather than be daunted by them. His eyes, recently darkened by grief and personal loss, seem brilliant and aglow with purpose and zeal.
“Indeed, Fadil was… well, no one deserves to die like that,” Reza says, remembering several arguments with the older man, but also that the man was reasonably kind, and a mentor of some sorts to the other priest travelling with them, the cleric, Tariq. “But sad as any man’s loss is to the desert, it is still a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Novid, and Tariq. I am Reza ibn-Tarsa al-Faris, a warrior sworn to the faith of Sarenrae."
The Faris offers the pathfinder a firm handshake, and a tight-lipped smile, remembering his fellow cleric of Sarenrae.
He laughs off Novid's discomfort around the confusion of his and Lyria's relationship. "We've been getting that our whole lives, it feels. No offense is taken. As Lyria says, we are searching for a woman named Haleen. She is our mother. It is a long tale, but the short version of it is that her last known whereabouts are here in Kelmarane."
Reza makes his introductions to the others, each in turn, his ready smile and pleasant, indeed, almost chatty demeanor helping to break the ice somewhat. In his presence, the worst of dangers seem far more easily surmountable. Perhaps it is simply the strength of his faith—perhaps it is simply the easy quip and friendly banter he offers, warming the soul as does his goddess warm weary travelers on a cool winter day.
He turns to Tariq once done with the formal introductions, and offers the man a polite bow, from one of the faithful to another.
"Tariq ibn Fadil Al-Fulan, if I may be of assistance to you in your own duty to the temple of Sarenrae, I would consider it both my duty as a Faris of Sarenrae, and penance. I regret not knowing Fadil well, and more that I was unable to help protect him. Though few can stop a scorpion in the night..." he shrugs his broad shoulders. "Still. My sword arm is yours should you need it for your task in Kelmarane."
The camels of the caravan continue to plod onwards across the hilly terrain, occasionally dropping their head to tear at the weeds that grow between the rocks.
Reza sees the rapier-wielding young man astride his horse approaching the group, and waves at him.
"A pleasure, friend, to meet you as well!" he says. "What brings you along with us on this weary way?"
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Durandel focuses on Reza then the stranger approaching. His thoughts about the revelations a few months past instantly put aside. Unexpected strangers coming from the hills usually did not bode well.
He knew where his knives lay on his person, and while the worn rapier on his belt was new to him he was familiar in their use.
So as he straightened he let his hand rest beside the hilt of the rapier.
Lyriah wobbled on her camel’s saddle, awkwardly outstretching her arm far to her right, to pull the reins, only just controlling the animal.
“Anyone have else having trouble with their camel?” She asked, the camel now oddly veering to her left.
Conversation slows at the sight of what lies beyond the next rise. A craggy tree with five immense leafless branches, looking more like a skeletal talon than a thing of living wood. It is obvious why it is named the Sultan's Claw.
Some commotion is audible beyond the rise, and the two mercenary guards (Dullen (male) and Brotis (female)) ride ahead to see what is happening.
Lyriah glares at Dulles as he passes, but her attention is quickly brought back to her camel as it turns in the opposite direction the caravan was heading.
With effort, Tariq too brings his mount to the head of the column, joining Durandel and Garavel and the mercenaries.
"Quiet is seldom long lived in the wilds of Katapesh." To Durandel, he continues; "We have not met, I am Tariq ibn Fadil Al-Fulan, Servant of the Dawnflower. I am at your service." Tariq' manner is open and genuine as if this newly met stranger was a dear friend.
After his greeting, Tariq turns his attention to the Sultan's Claw. He studies it, and the surrounding lands seeking the source of the commotion.
Reza reaches down to the pack on his horse's back, and unties a well-worn scabbard and scimitar from it, and loosens the shield strapped to the other side of the horse, tying it onto his left arm.
Securing the scabbard about his waist, he makes sure the weapon is loose, and thus easy enough to draw in case of a fight, and then kicks the horse forward to catch up to Lyriah, Durandel, and the others. As he rides, he stretches his shoulders and arms, loosening his muscles and testing his armour.
“And here I was hoping for a few more days of quiet time.”
"You and I both," the Faris says, his voice and gaze hardening as he looks westward. He pitches his voice loud enough for the caravan to hear. "My friends, forgive the imposition, and while I hope we are not to run into some trouble, here... I suggest we form up, just in case." Reza looks over to his sister with a look she has come to know over the past few years, ever since he joined the Dawn's Vigil. Prepare for a fight. "If you have experience fighting, I suggest you join me in the front line. If you have skills with a bow or magick," at this, the paladin offers his sister a grin. "Form up behind us."
Still trying to get the camel to go in the right direction Lyriah says, “I’ll not meet my fate on this beast.”
Attempting to dismount Lyriah and the camel make several circles. After some seemingly impossible acrobatics Lyriah flies off the camel landing unceremoniously on her rump.
“What god in heaven would create such a beast?” She mutters under her breath retrieving her pack, and bow from the camel.
Falling in line behind Reza, Lyriah gives him a nod and a wink.
Garavel leads the way to the top of the rise.
Surrounding the distinctive tree below are a half-dozen wagons and a colourful tent. About a dozen men and women race around the camp, while escaped livestock is scattered about. All are agitated because one of the wagons is on fire!
An imperious woman calls from the entrance of the tent.
"Garavel! It's about time! The rest of you, find some way to help!"
In the camp at large, a group of warriors armoured in red have formed a bucket line from one of the wagons to the burning one (which was brightly painted, with moons and stars as a theme).
Another group of guards, including the two who traveled with the group, are attempting to shift another wagon away from the burning one.
An old priest is tending to badly burned patient, while another lies nearby.
And a pair of drovers are seeking to round up the livestock before it flees into the night.
As the group approaches to help, a number of burning playing cards blow towards the party. One strikes Tariq in a burst of orange cinders.
Lyriah slings her bow on her shoulder and approaches the tent where the bucket line begins. If there are barrels, as she assumes, Lyriah will try refilling the nearest barrel using create water. Water is too precious to waste on fire, but with create water little natural water will be wasted. She will then instruct the fire brigade to take water only from the barrel she is refilling as the water she creates will only last a day.
If the card is not too badly burned he will try and obtain it, extinguish it, and stow it in a bag.
Seeing as there is no enemy to fight and that now there are extra bodies for the fire brigade, he hustles his way over to the old priest and the burned patient, assess the situation, and see what aid he can render.
"Greetings, Brother. Allow me to assist you." Tariq addresses to the older priest, as he pulls out a silver and gold Ankh, the emblem of his faith"
Reza slides the scimitar back into its scabbard, and kicks his horse forward, approaching the impromptu fire brigade.
Seeing Lyriah has begun creating water for the fire crew, he moves to help the wagoners get the unburnt wagon away from the burnt one, so as to ensure it does not spread the fire.
Novid gasps at the scene. "Densa... Grant us luck." He whispered a small prayer before kicking his camel in motion, he rushes over to assist Reza in the evacuation.
Almah, Garavel, and Lyriah race down to the bucket brigade, where four guards wearing the red chitin-plate armour of the Pactmaster Guard are running back and forth between the burning fortune-teller wagon and another, which contains a huge barrel of water. There are more buckets there, and Almah and Garavel each grab one to assist. Lyriah casts a spell to top up the barrel, and Garavel shouts, "Thanks, but better to grab a bucket now and replenish the water later!"
Tydus, Reza, and Novid all hurry to another wagon. A quartet of unkempt mercenary guards (including the two who accompanied Garavel's group) are attempting to move it away before an errant spark also sets it alight.
Tariq joins the old healer who is tending a badly burned guard. A female guard lies nearby, her breath rattling in a dire manner.
"I've got this one, boy. See if you can help her!"
Durandel heads to the opposite side of the Claw from the fire, where goats, sheep, chickens, and pigs are running free in the dimming light. A middle-aged man and woman are frantically trying to round up the animals and seal them back in their pens.
Despite the fact that summoned water only lasts for a day, Lyriah thinks of a better use for the spell. She begins casting the spell (and re-casting) so it douses the nearby wagon so it can’t catch fire. That should buy the others time to move it. Barring that, she casts right on the fire itself.
Tariq acknowledges the old healer's words with a curt nod and turns his attention to the woman lying nearby.
One of the things that had been drilled into him as a novitiate, was how to make the best use of the gifts that Sarenrae bestowed - and that required information.
Tariq makes a quick inspection of the woman, looking to determine if she is still conscious and if she is stable or getting worse.
Tariq uses his Rebuke Death spell-like ability to stabilize her and heal 1d4+1 hp.
hit points healed
Tariq speaks to her, gently. "Be at ease, Sister. Sarenrae will ease your pain."
Before he Channels Energy, Tariq will ensure that his energy will heal not only the woman before him but the old healer and his patient as well.
hit points healed
Durandel approaches a skittish sheep, which flees from him.
Tariq sees that the woman is dying, and calls on Sarenrae to rebuke death from taking her.
Novid dismounts from his camel and rushes over to a free space along side the wagon. "Okay, ready! One, two, three! Push!" He bores down and pushes with all his might.
Reva tugs desperately at the cart, and it rocks forward a bit, but rolls back to its previous position.
The old healer thanks Tariq, and tells him to go help his compatriots.
Lyriah casts create water, and a couple of gallons of water plummet on the non-burning wagon and its contents.
The drover answers Durandel, "I guess that helps. Is there anyone good with animals?"
"Again, friends, put your backs into it!"
Reza pushes again, straining with all his might to move the cart. "Someone set a rug or cloak under the wheel against the sand! It may well be stuck."
Reza keeps up the pressure on the wagon, cajoling the guards into helping further.
(OOC) Just a bit. The other one was earlier, so please use it to be fair (although I had not added the bonuses from aid another).
Tariq, seeing that the woman he has healed is at least stable, and not getting worse, moves toward those trying to move the wagon. Lending his shoulder to the task, he adds his strength to theirs.
With a mighty heave, and the timely addition of Tariq, the group is able to shove the wagon out of the way.
Reza wipes his hands on his leggings, and thanks the guards for their aid, as well as Tariq and Tydus.
He looks around, trying to spot the most urgent task to resolve--the fire catches his eye, in particular, but his skill with animals is also of use, given the herd's situation.
No, the fire has to go out, first.
Reza will move to join the bucket brigade.