Kivan nods gratefully to Pretty.
"I try to treat people with proper respect until they prove that they don't deserve it."
Kivan then looks over at Sera quizzically before he blinks a few times to prove that he can before speaking.
"Well if Ashardalon owed me an apology of course I would expect it. It's only proper manners."
Kivan then starts to think about the mystery of the farmhouse, but he can't quite piece it together. Hearing Maja talk about the man who was observing Sera with an evil aura gives Kivan the last piece or so he thinks.
Most likely that surgeon who was writing the letter would be handing it off to the evil knight or the farmer who would give it to the evil knight. The captain being the fool that he is would miss this and travel back to New Stetven after not finding the beast where the knight would deliver the letter. Then the noble who received the letter would have prepared to meet the surgeon with an imprisoned tiefling and assamair, or at least have them ready as targets. Since the surgeon died the knight will most likely take the letter and hide it if he can, but when he reports back he will also tell the tale of all the people who were there.
"Thank you. I haven't heard of any nymphs living out here, but I'll ask around in Restov. "
At Kivan's discussion of respect, he nods in agreement. "Aye, I agree with you on that, Kivan. I've met far too many people who decide someone is not worthy of respect only because of their heritage. " As a half-elf, Milo had a lot of experience with people like that. And he guessed that many of the others in the group had similar experiences.
"Good idea, Maja. I'll also keep an eye out for any signs of bandits." He assists her in concealing their own tracks while also looking for traces of the bandits. The rain, wind, and lack of sleep don't bother Milo after the many nights he'd spent sleeping outdoors while hunting and trapping.
Pretty seems to think a bit about what Maja mentioned, but she dismisses the idea. "If the guy staring at Sera was a cultist he would be looking at me, Henna or Devil Man, and not at Sera. There must be something else..."
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The rain continues all through the day. Despite your best efforts with cloak and hood, everybody is soaked through by the time the sun sets behind the cloud cover. The continuing rain makes starting a fire difficult and keeping it going impossible, so you spend a shiveringly cold night inside your tents, taking what comfort you can from fresh, dry clothes. Mercifully, no freakish beasts or bizarre cultists interrupt your sleep at night, and by the time the sun rises again the rain has tapered off and quit.
Location: Hex W2 (South Rostland Road, plains, river)
Date: 24 Desnus, 4710 Absalom Reckoning
Temperature: 50° F
Weather conditions: Overcast, no wind.
Food: 13 days' supply
The next day dawns cold and overcast. Your horses suffered in the night, exposed to the elements, their blankets making poorer shelter in the rain than your tents. With the promise of Restov, civilization, and a just reward for your deeds and efforts ahead, you ride onward.
Almost immediately after you resume your journey, the South Rostland Road meets with the clear, swift-flowing Shrike river which flows past Restov and down past the Sootscales. A large scrape on the bank next to the remains of a long-cold campfire gives evidence that Aldifierri overnighted here, beaching his barge out of the current.
You meet with no travelers on the road, and the day drags on in a monotonous fashion. To help pass the time, Devil Man plays a few pieces of music and tells humorous stories. At one point he retrieves a small, rectangular metal instrument and blows through it, producing a shrill and bold sound. From his pack he produces a washboard suitable for laundering clothes and runs his claws up and down the slats. The resulting clicking is rhythmic and forms an unusual but portable percussion instrument. Devil Man has a fine singing voice, slightly gravelly on the lower notes, and strums out a slow waltz on the washboard.
"You sailed the cold waters of the great northern bays,
The ice in your rigging and your rail in the waves,
And the snow in your canvas like a winter-gull's wing,
Oh, hard are the times you've been through."
"And now you've got hard times and now you lie still,
And you're fast to the anchor and chain,
Broken and tired and the winds pass you by,
But you're bound to go sailing again."
"You sailed out of Port Ice on the soft Northern swell,
Wind on your quarter, your bows rose and fell,
So many remember so much more than they'll tell,
of the hardest of times you've been through."
"Clawpoint to Chesed and the Winterbreak Bay,
In the winds and the terrible snow,
When they carried their icepicks just to bring you about,
In the light from the lantern below."
"The fish in your hold fed thousands ashore,
When the Brevic crops failed you shipped in succor,
You've worked as hard as you could, and a little bit more,
Hard are the times you've been through."
"So rest, lady, rest, from the fog and the gales,
Let the harbor protect you and the wind dry your sails,
And a hundred old sailors tell their foggiest tales,
Of all the hard times you've been through."
"And we'll see your masts mingle with the spruces and pines,
And we'll bow as we all pass you by,
for a boat is more patient than a sailor can be,
With the sun and the wind in his eye."
"And oh you've known hard times, and now you lie still,
You're fast to the anchor and chain,
Broken and tired, and the winds pass you by,
But you're bound to go sailing,
Yes, you're bound to go sailing,
You're bound to go sailing again."
Devil Man grins. "Learned that one from an old sailor. 'Song for the Bowdoin'. Normally I'd charge you a copper apiece for that, but seeing as my heart's still inside of me I think I can stand you a round!"
The day passes uneventfully, and night falls with half a day's journey left ahead of you. This close to Restov there is little to fear, so it is without any trepidation that you build a sizable fire to see you through the night. The welcome warmth dries out your sodden belongings and drives the cold from your bones. Smoke from the damp wood curls up to a clearing sky and uncountable stars.
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Location: Hex AA1(South Rostland Road, Restov, River)
Date: 25 Desnus, 4710 Absalom Reckoning
Temperature: 60° F
Weather conditions: Sunny, clear skies, no wind
Food: 12 days' supply (will not diminish in town)
As dawn breaks, you sup on carefully packaged provisions from Svetlana - bundles of dried meat wrapped in hearty bread with boiled eggs. The day proves to be a fine one, significantly warmer and a clear sky that allows the morning sun to shine strongly upon you. You stow your gear carefully, as it will hopefully be a stretch of time before you have to unpack it.
Soon after you set out, you begin encountering the first line of Restov's eyes and sword arms. Your passing is noted by a wooden watchtower that commands a view of the road, its solitary occupant acknowledging your passing with a friendly wave. Half an hour later, an outbound mounted patrol of three men in Restov's colors passes you on the road, its members exchanging curt greetings with you as they ride out. But a few hours later, the walls of Restov loom large ahead of you - you've made it back.
Although you were gone but for a few months, you are different people than the raw novice adventurers who rode out clutching a wax-sealed parchment. Fate and circumstance, man and beast have tried you, and you have been found not wanting for skill and spirit.
Near Restov's main gate, you pass over a small wooden bridge that spans a cheerful stream. A group of visiting dignitaries, Andoran by the eagle-shaped brooches they wear, is receiving a history lesson from a patient page. "My lords, you gaze upon the famous Bridge of Challenge, where Baron Sirian Aldori bested a now-forgotten bandit lord in a contest of blades for the right to rule what is now Rostland. After establishing himself as ruler of the area, Baron Aldori wagered one hundred thousand pieces of gold that none could best him in a duel - and none ever did. The Swordlords practice his techniques to this day, and this bridge is the setting where a high-ranking Swordlord can challenge the Lord Mayor to a duel for leadership. It should be noted that these duels are always to the death, unlike the more merciful rules we obey for lesser contests. This ensures that challengers are serious of their intent, and no ambitious but vanquished Swordlord remains to foment dissent. It is a wise system that has held the Swordlords together these five hundred years."
The import of this humble wooden arch is thus not lost on you as you traverse it and come to the main gate of the city. Three stories high, it is a formidable defensive structure of tight-fitted granite, tinged pink with the distinctive composition of stone quarried locally. Like the walls, it is crenelated, and arrow-loops and murder-holes festoon the barbican. When staffed by resolute defenders, this gate would be extremely costly to assault.
Several guardsmen stand at duty posts by the open gate, and one waves you over. "Well met, travelers. Welcome to Restov. What brings you to town? Well, besides you, Milo. Good hunting this spring? I've a mind for a fur-lined cloak for my wife. If you could be sure that Bracken and Sons tailors gets to buy some of your wares, I'd appreciate it - they'll give me the best price for the finished work. Right then, you lot!"
When you explain your purpose to the guard and show him the charter, he nods. "Official business then - I'll not hold you up. First, though: Rules." The guard indicates Idris' sword and apologizes. "Beg pardon, Initiate, I know you've heard this a thousand times but I have to say it all - orders. Although we're here on the southern border in Restov, this is no lawless River Kingdom town. Keep to your common sense and good behavior and we'll have no trouble. There is to be no dueling in the streets - all matters of honor are to be settled at the Proving Grounds, governed by the laws of the Swordpact. The penalty of street dueling is breaking of your sword on the first offense, expulsion from the city on your second, and execution on your third. All transactions are subject to the Mayor's Take, a tax of five percent. Any merchant found cheating the tax will have his goods confiscated and be banished from Restov. Open worship of evil gods is punishable by death. Right, we're sorted. On your way, then. Do you require an escort or guide to the Mayor?"
As you ride into the city, you overhear a couple guards talking as they watch your group. "That's another one o' the lot what rode west all in a 'urry couple months past. Dunno what they're about but it must be important, word is they've got orders from His Nibs."
"Sommat with Qadira, innit? Last bunch 'ad one o' them merchants too. This one ain't got 'er arm inna sling, though."
Naw, no way to make it there and back that quick. Something fishy though, for sure."
After your stay in the wilderness, the thriving metropolis of Restov is a bit much to take in. The city is abuzz with activity, and the barking calls of merchants hawking their wares mingles with the tattoo of ringing hammers on anvils, screaming children, clucking chickens, and all the various hue and cry of humanity going about life. After the pristine calm of the Stolen Lands, it seems incredibly loud, busy, and smelly.
The Mayor's Palace isn't difficult to find at all. Located on a hill in the middle of the city, the seat of city power is visible from almost every street. It is an impressive dwelling, part castle and part palace. Granite walls support dagger-like towers with graceful flying buttresses, and the Palace is roofed entirely in green-patinaed copper at tremendous expense.
As you ride through the city on your way to the Palace, you note that Restov differs from other cities in its lack of separation between the classes. Where most cities are segregated into poor ghettos and rich districts, in the seat of the Swordlords' power grandiose dwellings occupy plots of land adjacent to densely-packed tenement housing. The streets are cobbled and in good repair, and the most prevalent building style is a stone lower story topped with timber and plaster second or third stories.
Several landmarks catch your eye. The black walls of the Bastion, Restov's temple to Gorum, rise above the roofline in the western part of the city. As with all major Gorumite facilities, the Bastion is a formidable defensive structure more akin to a hotly-contested border keep than a temple to the divine. As it is throughout Rostland, Gorum's faithful are numerous in Restov. Most of the city guard make at least token gestures to that faith, and the black plate-clad warrior-priests of the order provide martial instruction to all comers who can handle the intense and brutal training.
At the northern, northeastern, and eastern ends of the city sit the three massive Academies Martial, where hot-blooded Aldori swordlings learn the forms and strikes of their distinctive style. Although all three academies teach in the Aldori tradition, they have distinctive styles. The Swordpact Society is the most traditional school; Society members stray very little from the writings of Baron Aldori. The Fireblade Academy is more innovative, and their proponents speak of blades tempered in the flames of Rostland's defeat at the hands of Choral the Conqueror. The Society of Blade and Word fancies themselves more philosophical and refined, their members engaging in debates and contests of wit as often as actual swordplay. Each school has its proponents and detractors, and students generally pick a school and do not switch between them. Each academy abides by the laws of the Swordpact, the system of government laid down by Baron Aldori to govern his followers, and the ranks of their memberships are equivalent in nature. The status of any given Aldori is thus a complicated function of family status, dueling prowess, choice of school, rank within the chosen school, titular nobility (or lack thereof), material wealth, and social ability. This tends to produce extremely proud and extremely skilled combatants, and duels over matters of honor are a daily occurrence. Duels are usually fought to the first blood, or to disarm the opponent, or simply ceremonial affairs to allow satisfaction with no violent intent - but when grievous insults are done and feuds come to a head the combatants will fight until death.
In the middle of these large fixtures is a mishmash of houses and shops. Restov is also unlike other cities in that it lacks a distinct marketplace - stores and merchant stalls are distributed across the city proper.
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You arrive at the gates of the Mayor's Palace, a fortified and luxurious mansion perched atop a hill near the center of the city. Your approach is watched closely by guards posted on the walls, and you are met at the gate by a contingent of watchmen. The welcoming party is led by a soldier of higher rank, if the epaulets on his shoulders and ribbons on his uniform are any indication. Once again you are called upon to state your business, and once again producing your charter grants you admission.
"Welcome to the Mayor's Palace," says the soldier. "I am Lieutenant Anton Tokarevi. You are the third of the four groups to return. The Lord Mayor will desire to speak with you forthwith. My men will see to your horses and belongings. Have no fear for your goods, they will be under strict security. Come - the Lord Mayor does not like to be kept waiting."
Tokarevi blows a sharp whistle with his fingers, and a trio of stableboys appear at a fast pace to take your horses from you. The boys are dressed finely in black woolen outfits trimmed with red velvet, matching the uniforms of Restov's guard. Takarevi leads you up a flight of marble steps and through the main doors of the palace, into a world of splendor and opulence.
The Mayor's Palace is undoubtedly the finest and most luxurious dwelling in this half of Brevoy, although the nobles of Taldor would turn up their noses at it as "rustic". The floor and walls are all of smooth marble. The floor is tiled in a black and white checkered pattern, and you tread upon fresh, fragrant herbs which have been laid across every passageway. The walls are hung with fine tapestries and artwork, with breathtaking vistas and exquisite still lifes from renowned painters. Glass portals in the ceiling admit light and provide sustenance for carefully pruned decorative plants, and the air is kept moist with burbling fountains at regular intervals. Servants and guards fill the hallways, going about their daily business and giving brief greetings to you as demanded by etiquette as you pass.
You are lead up two flights of spiral staircase onto the top level of the Palace, where you find yourselves in a sumptuously appointed antechamber. A pair of overstuffed couches and gaggle of oaken chairs provide plentiful space to sit, and the dark-stained bookshelves which line the room are filled with books on a variety of topics sure to entertain any visitor. A small end table by each couch bears a tray with a pitcher of chilled water and several goblets.
The facilities are not put to the test, however, as you are joined after only a few minutes by Lord Mayor Ioseph Sellemius, the current ruler of Restov and caretaker of the Aldori tradition. Sellemius, a duelist of common birth but extraordinary talent has been the leader of the Swordlords for the past fifteen years, in which he has faced no challengers at all. Sellemius' rise to power was marked by a great many duels and challenges, in which he defeated every single one of his opponents without suffering so much as a scratch. Possibly the finest bladesman of the era, he is also noted for his mercy - none of his opponents were killed or suffered permanent injury. When the previous Lord Mayor passed away from the fever, Sellemius put his bid in for the leadership role and none chose to stand against him - duels for leadership of the Swordlords are to the death, and none thought they stood a chance of besting Sellemius. Sellemius has proven to be a wise and fair ruler, and Restov has flourished under his reign.
The Lord Mayor sweeps into the room from his private study, resplendent in fine mithril armor, kid leather, black silk cloak and impeccable top hat. His sword hangs casually from his belt.
"Brave adventurers, you've returned! I had great confidence in your abilities - that is why you were chosen for the charter, after all - but it still gladdens my heart to see you've returned here victorious."
Sellemius hooks a chair with his foot and pulls it out, sliding into it gracefully but casually. From a pocket he unfolds a map of Rostland, with blank room at the southern border where you were sent to explore.
"Let us not waste any time then - if you are thirsty or hungry say the word and your needs will be met. Until then, business - I will take the report of your findings now."
Milo applauds at Devil Man's performance. "Bravo! Only one copper? You should charge at least five for it, " he jokes. "But in all seriousness, I bet you could make a pretty penny singing and playing at one of the taverns in town."
Outside the main gates, Milo listens to the story of the Bridge of Challenge with interest. Later during their stay in the city, over dinner, he asks Idris her professional opinion. "Brevoy has an interesting history. I've never heard of anywhere else that allow dueling for the position of mayor. What happens if a very skilled duelist becomes mayor, but does not do well governing the city? What if no one can best him and take over his position?"
"Good to see you again. The hunting was excellent. I'll be sure to stop by and see Mr Bracken and his sons first and give him first dibs on anything he wants from my catch", Milo responds to the guard.
Once inside the gates, Milo keeps Nix right at his side, away from any children, chickens, or anyone else who might be frightened to see a wolf wandering through the streets. He hoped that the group's horses would shield her from view. Although he'd been to Restov several times before, Milo still gawks at the wonders of the city. He was always amazed by the beautiful buildings, the multitude of different wares for sale in the shops, and the sheer number of people living within the walls. And now that he had so many furs to sell, he could actually buy some things at the shops and not just window shop...
As the stableboys take the horses, Milo firmly tells Nix "Stay." To Lieutenant Tokarevi, he says "Sir, my wolf will stay right here or in the stable, whichever you prefer. In fact, you'll find she's better behaved than most hunting dogs."
Once the business with the horses is taken care of, Milo admires the furnishings inside. In his mind, the rooms look comfortable and useful, not rustic. One of the servants has to repeat his greeting as the ranger is too busy staring at a large display of plants around a bubbling fountain to notice. Embarrassed, Milo keeps his head down, reminding himself that he is among the company of important people and should mind his manners.
When Mayor Sellemius enters, Milo bows in respect, but otherwise remains quiet, trying to piece together the report with the strange conversation he overheard at Restov's gates.
Once they are finished with official business, Milo visits Bracken and Son's tailoring shop first to sell some of his furs, then visit other tailors or merchants who would be interested.
Pretty was stunned by the tiefling's performance, so much as to try to appraise him a second time, cause the first impression wasn't that impressive. She saw Devil Man playing his instrument and realized the man had some skill, if not as much as she would like in a... Oh crap!
When she realized it, it was already too late, as her mind was invaded once more by thoughts about herself, her future and all the loneliness reserved to her kind. Pretty has ever been the lonely wolf, even when she had a close partner like Swift. It occurred to her several times that the life cycle demanded that she got married, one day, but for dozens of years she have been delaying thinking about it, and she is still is. I mean, look at him! He is pathetic! He doesn't even have a real name!! But the song was really good, and he has been brave when she needed it, taking a cut so she could kill the monster in the basement.
Is he trying to impress me? The answer was probably no, but shouldn't he be trying to? Or did he prefer Henna? There certainly weren't many tieflings around... Which made her think about what could be done about it. With this cult on the loose her life was in constant danger, more than it ever was. Were there more of her kind around Brevoy? Or should she try to find a human husband? Nah, in a dozen years he would probably be dying, and I would be almost the same... She thought about races that lived longer, like the elves, but simply by looking at Kivan made her think twice about that. Making the calculations, she had drawn the conclusion that elves were somehow similar to her. They lived for hundreds of years, were swift but frail, clever but, well, crazy...
The hard times they had at the stolen lands somehow kept those thoughts at bay, but now in the road and with basically nothing to keep Pretty busy, they were driving her mad. She thought about how her life would be if she were normal, and the conclusion didn't please her at all. Weirdly enough, she would probably still be a devil, but one in thoughts and actions helping a diabolic family, if not in physical appearance. The thought made her smile along with the song the tiefling was singing. Life was not so bad these days. Could she one day get married and have a normal life? An uneasy feeling possessed her, not for fear that she would never find a mate, but for fear she would not like a normal life. Or would she? Swift and Devil Man were at least a part like her, but were there more? Holy f+!&!
Pretty recalled there was another tiefling, one they met not a long time ago. She somehow totally forgot about Jegred, and she got worried about him not knowing about the cultists. Of course, he had a dinosaur, and was a druid traveling the wilderness, but still... "It is a beautiful song, Devil Man. You should charge more for singing it."
"Hey guys, do you think Jegred is all right?"
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Pretty avoids calling more attention than her disguise already does, so she keeps quiet even though hearing something weird about a Qadiran merchant having an arm on a sling. Well, at least he is alive. She also thinks about who would this "His Nibs" be.
[dice=K.Local: "His Nibs"]1d20+7[/dice]
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Pretty feels safe in the presence of this man. If the stories could be believed (and they could, as she was alive and close by at the time), he was a wise leader, and - thanks gods - not of noble blood. She wanted to point that detail to her companions, proving once more that you did not need nobles for anything in this world, but she guessed the mayor did not had the time to hear them rambling about it.
Being the note keeper, she starts to give an overall report on their findings. "Right now, sir. So, the lands our chart covered are cleared. We've dealt with several threats, from which are worthy of note" - she starts pointing out at the map - "a small group of bandits that were charging taxes from the outpost here (R4), a full tribe of evil Mites that we killed at this spot where there's an Old Sycamore and some underground tunnels (T5), an undead ghoul on this ruined bridge (R5) that should not be a problem anymore, several undead dogs that attacked us here (U4) and were hacked to pieces, a giant spider at (T3) that was also slain. We also killed a cursed Giant Bear here (Q4), a Giant Boar here (R5), a clan of Boggards there (P4), Taltzwyrms here (P6), and our main problem was dealing with a bandit that called himself the Stag Lord and had a dozen followers, on this spot (S7), but he was also executed for his crimes, along with his band and the undeads that existed in that hill."
"We've also established a good relationship with a lonely and partially crazy man that lives in a shackle close to this spot (U2), named Bokken, and with a tribe of kobolds that peacefully on the lands (T6)."
[ooc]If we had agreed not to share any information (just say it out loud folks) please consider Pretty did that not mention that.
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Pretty would like to search for Swift and their party to hear the news about their trip.
If everyone agrees, she will sell walk around town to get some better prices for their goods, and will specially seek a specialist in clocks to take a look at the one they have, to see if they know who the previous owner was (to give the regards to the family - maybe they want to buy the clock back as a memento if they have the money), and if the man is interested or know who would want to buy it.
Plus, there is a mention to some equipment she would like to check for a few equipments in the city, as noted on this post.
Pretty seems to think a bit about what Maja mentioned, but she dismisses the idea. "If the guy staring at Sera was a cultist he would be looking at me, Henna or Devil Man, and not at Sera. There must be something else..."
Sera shook her head, "I'm not so sure about that, they honor Ashardalon and seem to have some degree of reverence for dragonkind. But I did not see his face, it's possible he recognized me from somewhere else."
Despite her increased experience recently with the sensation, Seraphina still hated to be cold and wet. She bore it sulkily albeit silently, save for the occasional sigh of frustration that escaped her lips. She had begun to understand why so many wealthier nobles preferred coaches and carriages for long journeys. But she swiftly rebuffed the thought. Trading one's vision, maneuverability and speed for the enclosed comfort of a plodding vehicle seemed an indulgent and tactically weak decision to make. It appeared her time spent in battle had left her in a constant state of alert readiness, a quality she'd not had before.
Sera's mood was much improved as soon as the weather cleared. She took the time to rub her mare down, massaging her cold muscles to work some warmth and flexibility back into her legs before journeying on.
When they came upon what looked to be Aldifierri's campsite, she remarked, "Is that sign of that actor fellow we met along the river there? Now there was another talented performer without a troupe." She grinned at a thought and looked over at Devil Man. "You'll forgive my brash tongue, I hope, but you'd be unmatched in the role of Mephistopheles to his Faustus."
As always, Sera was a rapt and appreciative audience as the tiefling told stories and sang his sea shanty. She bobbed her head to the rhythm of the tune and clapped enthusiastically when it was finished and shooting off her tiny colorful bursts using prestidigitation.
She frowned, beset by unpleasant thoughts when Pretty mentioned Jegred, but she shook them off, determined to be positive. "Jegred's habit of keeping to the wilderness should keep him safe from the cult, Pretty. And Sicarius never leaves his side, I'm sure they're alright." She smiled, trying to comfort her friend, as well as herself.
Seraphina kept the hood of her travelling cloak up, but answered all waves of greeting and hails politely and respectfully and urged her friends to do the same. She hoped they would not blunder their way into a duel here.
She kept a watchful eye on the shop windows they passed for a suitable garment to combine with her Noble's Gown and once spotted, she stopped the party to take a moment to purchase the shrug and change in their dressing stalls. Now appropriately dressed to meet the Lord Mayor, they proceeded on to the Palace.
Seraphina dipped a low curtsey and greeted the Lord Mayor. "Apologies for our delay, Your Honor, we were accosted by a vile group of kidnapping cultists along the road and tracked them back to their hideout. These madmen employ a frightening abomination that threatens the good people of Brevoy's countryside. We were forced to give up our investigations when Knight-Captain Nikolay Makarov arrived and commanded us to leave the premises."
She unrolled their own map and helped Pretty to fill in the details as she reported from her notes. "It's worth noting that the Stag Lord was preparing to set himself up as Lord in truth with quite a large cache of building supplies and he was even minting his own coin in his likeness. It's well we stopped him when we did. We have spoken of reinforcing and rebuilding the ruined fort as it is in an ideal location. We have also seen evidence of gold near the river, here." She said, indicating where on the map.
Kiavn leaves to be by himself for a bit during the night. Going out into the darkness, and using a small light to guide his way. After getting a decent distance away from the camp Kivan's shadow will form up around the vial of blood taken from the dead spellcaster. Kivan raises the vial to his lips, drinks, and once again gains knowledge from a fallen foe. After gaining his new knowledge and putting it down Kivan will spend the rest of the night pouring over the book of demon summoning.
Kivan nods without really listening. He would certainly not be claiming the right to duel anybody here.
Kivan travels around looking for any books that might be for sale that would help increase his knowledge in the arts of magic, and in the art of surgery. He also looks out for magical components that he can use to craft a headband for himself.
Idris listens appreciatively to the song by Devil Man, but when Pretty brings up Jegred, she gets a little worried.
"We might have to try to find him, let him know about this cult. Maybe when we return, he might be at the trading post, or have passed by there."
In reply to Milo, Idris explains, "Well, I never made it past initiate, due to the circumstances of my enrollment, but in the Fireblade* Academy where I was, the students were taught statecraft and philosophy as well as dueling, with the assumption that when they graduated they might well be part of the government, helping rule this city. It was considered part of being a well-rounded swordsperson."
Idris nods at the guard's acknowledgement of her sword, remembering these words very well.
As they ride, Idris mentions to the others, "When we are done at the Mayor's, I must to the Bastion go, both to pay my respects, and to see if Kilkynn is there. Pretty, you've had dealings with him as well, would you like to join me? I know they won't hold your heritage against you, they very much don't care where you're from or who you were born to as long as you can fight."
Idris chuckles a bit at Pretty's straightforward rattling off the astounding foes they had fought over the last few months. "Aye, and regarding those Kobolds, Lord Mayor, I know that Kobolds have the reputation of being cowardly, thieving sneaks, but these folks aren't like that. They're trappers, hunters, fishers, and farmers, with a mine, and a religion based around an aspect of Erastil. At least, Maja says it's the same God as she serves so I believe her. They're good neighbors."
Pretty is obviously not much thrilled with the prospect of meeting Kylkynn again, but maybe he improved a little in these last years. "Sure, let's see how the old man is doing."
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Devil Man bows with a flourish, as best one can on horseback, at your praise. "A copper's all you can expect out of a circus-goer. Not entertainment for the highbrow." He laughs at Seraphina's comment, jesting "There you go, typecasting already! I'll have you know I could sing the part of a wide variety of evil things. 'Lot six six six then, a chandelier in pieces!'"
"Aye, it's a duty on the seller," replies the guard to Pretty's inquiry. "They may or may not pass it on to you. Now, they'll all claim it comes from their profits, but that and six coppers buys you a pint of bitter at the taphouse."
"his nibs" is an old Taldan way of referring to a member of the royal family. Restov lacks such a fixture, but it could clearly apply to the Lord Mayor.
Seraphina's fashion needs are met in the quaint shop of one Mme Ivirska, Fine Clothier. You are greeted at the door by the proprietor herself, a well-fed middle aged woman wreathed in lacy garments and a protective aura of perfumes. Her wares range from classical to ahead of the fashion curve to outright scandalous, though she steers you away from the latter. "None of that for you, My Lady. I can tell you're not that sort! I simply adore your makeup, by the way. It looks fearsome, like that of some Princess of Osirion!" When you make your selection, Ivirska affects a dramatic gasp. "Your tastes are impeccable! Travelers have brought word that this style is the talk of the court in Oppara this season. You shall have the eye of every eligible bachelor at the Ball!"
Idris needs no guide to find her way to the Bastion. Its commanding presence and imposing stature make navigating the sometimes chaotic streets easy - it is a landmark not to be missed. The Bastion takes up more space then merely the land upon which it is situated; the opposing side of the street is bare of development and houses. In lieu of buildings, the Bastion is surrounded by well-cobbled parade grounds, where martial contests, Gorumite rituals, and ceremonial parades can be undertaken. The fortress itself is ringed with a moat, deep enough to drown an armored soldier and paved with slick stones on the fortress' side to hinder those seeking to bypass the gates. Idris and Pretty cross the lowered drawbridge and find themselves standing before a simple set of black iron doors embossed with the holy symbol of Gorum - a sword thrust into a mountainside. Idris knows that it is of no use to loiter by the entrance - a bold and forceful knock is required for your presence to be acknowledged. Doing so prompts a viewport set in the door to be slid back, exposing a pair of unsympathetic eyes. "Will you dedicate your being to toil, strife, pain, and honor?" comes the ritual challenge as part of the ceremonial entrance.
Milo's arrival at the various tailors and clothiers is warmly welcomed. As one of the few sources of fine furs for the city, you are able to command a fine price for your wares, the most upscale establishments paying a hefty premium for their pick of the lot. In short order your pack horse is relieved of its burdens and your money-purse bulges.
"Of course, sir. Very good," replies Tokarevi to Milo's comments on Nix. One of the stable boys considers trying to leash the wolf, thinks better of it, and instead makes an entreaty to the fearsome beast. "Good doggie. Come?"
Sellemius frowns at your description of the cultists and the attitudes of the Throne's soldiers. "Bastards think they run the whole country just because the pretender sits on the throne. That area is under my jurisdiction, not Surtova's. I'll send a platoon of my guards to investigate that house - not that they'll find anything after that much time has passed, but they'll at least make sure the evil proceedings have been stopped. Perhaps they can knock the good captain on his arse in the process to remind him whose land he patrols."
The Mayor listens attentively to the description of your travels and deeds, sketching to fill in the map. The strokes of his pen are bold, decisive, and unhesitating, secure in the certainty that the point of the quill will land precisely where desired. "I must commend you on your vanquishing that petty bandit lord. His ilk are the bane of society, enforcing their delusions of grandeur on the backs of innocents. A true ruler knows that his station is one of service, that blood and sweat, tears and toil are the true wages of leadership, not an easy life whipped from the hide of passer-by."
Sellemius considers your recounting of the kobolds with a quizzical look on his face. "What you say is astounding, I've never heard of the like. I despise unnecessary bloodshed, so if they need not be put to the sword so much the better."
After you've finished your tale, Sellemius is silent for a moment, fishing an ivory pipe from a pouch, packing it with tobacco, and lighting it. After a few puffs of fragrant smoke to get the fire going, the Mayor of Restov leans back in his chair. "This fort that you've liberated. It is yours by right of force of arms. As the river folk say, 'You Have What You Hold'. Tell me, what do you plan to do with your new holding?" You can tell that Sellemius is scrutinizing your faces carefully on your response.
Sera grins mischievously, laughing at the familiar reference. "Well, there is something to be said for really looking the part... think of the efficiency alone!"
Seraphina blushed slightly as her eyes passed over the more scandalously cut items, verifying the shopkeeper's judgement on her more demure character. "Thank you. I'm glad you like it. I'm not sure from where it comes, it may indeed be Osirion. I once saw a Lady in passing who wore the style, she spied me gawking and smiled at me. She told me, 'Watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.' She was so lovely and mysterious, I never forgot it." She complimented the woman's shop and made her purchase without haggling. "I must confess, I did not know a Ball was to be held soon. Can you tell me more about it?"
Sera was carefully minding her courtly manners in the presence of the Lord-Mayor. "I sincerely hope I am wrong in this hypothesis but I worry that the farmhouse is just one among many, based on the letter we found. They revere Ashardalon, a great red wyrm who cheated death by binding a fiend to him. Apparently, they hunt tieflings and take their hearts in some dark ritual to follow the dread wyrm's example. We liberated two such captives, but there may be countless more plane-touched Rostlanders in danger, sir."
She was pleased and much relieved to hear the Lord-Mayor speak so of the Sootscales. "They are a surprising tribe, to be sure. Their chief speaks of the duty of leadership and service much in the same manner as yourself. We hope to strengthen our friendship and continue to learn from each other as allies and neighbors. In an effort to guard against a return to the more furtive and xenophobic attitudes kobolds are known for, may I ask that we keep the news of their existence quiet for the time being? Too many interested parties might seem threatening."
When asked what they intended to do with the fort, Seraphina looked around the room meeting the eyes of her companions and smiling confidently before she began speaking. "Our company is composed of many varied and disparate people, but though our personal goals are unique to each individual, I believe we have become united in our purpose."
"The Stolen Lands are not a long neglected basement that can be reclaimed and made livable again by simply clearing away the clutter, and shooing away the vermin and dust bunnies. We found evidence of entire communities swallowed up by the ravenous wilderness. Something more devious than ambitious bandit lords is at work there, and though I can only speak for myself, I believe I voice a common view when I say that I do not care for leaving work only half-done. I have grown to care for so many who call the Greenbelt home. I cannot leave them to suffer whatever trials are yet to come alone. The fort we re-establish there will serve to protect the community and further bolster the southern defenses of Brevoy. Long has the Medvyed name stood guard against the perils of the wild lands and the threat of invaders. And as long as that noble blood runs in my veins, I will hold to that honored duty. 'Endurance Overcomes All', so we say. And so it shall." She bowed her head reverently and then waited patiently for her fellows to speak about their own motivations.
Once the discussion of goals was over, Seraphina tilted her head as she considered how to carefully word her request. "I hope it is not too presumptuous a topic to broach, but we came to be aware of other chartered companies sent out, as we were. And since the only servant of the Throne who became aware of our charter reacted... badly, I was hoping you might honor us by speaking to your own motivations for drafting the charters in the first place." She smiled and watched the Lord-Mayor's countenance with bright eyes, eager to understand.
Idris needs no guide to find her way to the Bastion. Its commanding presence and imposing stature make navigating the sometimes chaotic streets easy - it is a landmark not to be missed. The Bastion takes up more space then merely the land upon which it is situated; the opposing side of the street is bare of development and houses. In lieu of buildings, the Bastion is surrounded by well-cobbled parade grounds, where martial contests, Gorumite rituals, and ceremonial parades can be undertaken. The fortress itself is ringed with a moat, deep enough to drown an armored soldier and paved with slick stones on the fortress' side to hinder those seeking to bypass the gates. Idris and Pretty cross the lowered drawbridge and find themselves standing before a simple set of black iron doors embossed with the holy symbol of Gorum - a sword thrust into a mountainside. Idris knows that it is of no use to loiter by the entrance - a bold and forceful knock is required for your presence to be acknowledged. Doing so prompts a viewport set in the door to be slid back, exposing a pair of unsympathetic eyes. "Will you dedicate your being to toil, strife, pain, and honor?" comes the ritual challenge as part of the ceremonial entrance.
"By the Lord in Iron, and by my sword, I do!" Idris replies with vigor.
Pretty remains quiet while Idris deal with the mad fool, or whoever is behind that freaking door.
Pretty is relieved as the man made no intention to claim that fort for himself. "You have what you hold. We believe that spot can be used for good purpose in the stolen lands. It is a perfect location to build a stronghold, but that has been tried before, of course, or it would not be there. Do you know the story behind that place, sir?"
Thinking of his family and friends living on the southern outskirts of Brevoy, Milo voices his agreement with Seraphina's plan. "Your Honor, now the Stolen Lands are a den for bandits, monsters, and even greater unknown threats. If Restov and the southern border are to be safe, we must explore and secure them before they grow in strength and numbers."
Excited at the prospect of having a full coin purse, Milo visits the ships of Restov. After finding some practical clothing and food to send to his family, he realizes just how much money he still has. If I'm going to be meeting nobility, I shouldn't look like a scruffy woodsman, he decides.
Returning to Brakken and Sons tailoring shop, one of the Brakkens selects a fine green tunic and embroidered cloak despite Milo's best efforts to choose a gaudy outfit. Next, he visits a harness maker, where he comissions a fine leather harness for Nix.
Still having a sizeable amount of gold remaining, he stops at several shops and looks longingly at the comfortable furniture, the fine dishes, and other items that he cannot use on the road. Although he'd never seen it, he pictured the grand keep Seraphina described to Mayor Selimus and all of the wonderful things he could buy for furnishings. He does purchase several trinkets- a silver, leaf shaped clasp for his cloak, an engraved tag for Nix's new harness, a fine necklace for his sister, and a new set of paintbrushes for his father. After packaging them up with a letter, he finds someone to deliver the items.
Dear Father and Abriel,
I hope this letter finds you well. This season has been the best for Nix and me ever. All the nobles of Restov will as warm as can be this winter.
I met a group of adventurers who took care of the holdings of bandits living south of Restov. Rumor has it that there is still a band of bandits headed east, so be cautious if you are traveling.
As usual, send your mail to Oleg's trading post. He'll know where to find me.
Love,
Milo
Milo will also take the opportunity to ask some questions either from other travelers who are in town, or his contacts in the fur trade.
-Have you heard of any bandits nearby?
-Have you ever heard any tales of nymphs?
-Posted with Wayfinder
Kivan will learn the spell whip of spiders.
Kivan leaves the speaking to the others seeing no reason to chime in.
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Mme Ivirska trills an astonished laugh, quickly stifling it with a bejeweled hand held in front of her mouth. "Oh, a thousand pardons, My Lady, I did not realize you were not from here. Why, it's the Mayor's birthday celebration! He is only forty-five years of age, and has reigned for the last fifteen years, so this is a special celebration. Everyone will be there!" Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper and she leans closer across the counter. "If rumor is true, the Mayor will finally select a lady to court at this ball!" Unable to contain her enthusiasm, Iverska's voice quickly rises to its former volume. "Can you believe it? Forty five years old and never married! Were it not for the stories of his younger days, one would think he prefers the company of gentlemen. Sellemius bested the heads of all three academies in public contests. No one has ever done that before! No one! Can you imagine being on his arm for a stroll through the city? Goodness, it gives me the vapors just thinking of it!"
"Then enter the domain of the Friend of Those that Fight!" The viewport in the iron door slams shut in front of Idris and Pretty, and the heavy black portal swings silently outward on well-oiled hinges. The doorkeeper is revealed as a brawny man in elaborate plate armor, enameled a deep black and festooned with wicked spikes. He gives you a clenched-fist salute across his chest as you enter the Bastion. The interior of the fortress is just as Idris remembers it. A sharp and methodical ringing clangs through the compound as smith-priests pour their devotion into the crafting of blade and armor, honing the edge of their soul as surely as the blades in their hands. The sooty black smoke of their coal-fired forges drifts through the courtyard as if to symbolize the weakness being beaten from the metal under the tender ministrations of the metalworkers. A cadre of teenage boys, and one teenage girl, face off in pairs on the flagstones of the yard, stripped to simple linen loincloths for grappling instruction. The imposing form of Priest-Instructor Malanichev scolds a boy as you pass. "Instructor, why must we practice on stone instead of grass? It hurts when you fall!" "Then do not fall, boy. Again! First rank attack, second defend. Execute!"
You pass the mess hall and infirmary on your way to the living complex. Both are alike in appearance, the only difference in their spartan accommodations being ranks of tables in one and beds in the other. It is considered no shame to be admitted to the infirmary, and adherents stoically wear the bandages and splints of well-earned injuries with pride. The mess hall serves simple, plain, but nutritious food, not only to Gorumites but to any of the city's poor who dare attend the thrice-daily meals. The food is served at no cost, but the rough reception given by the trainees to any non Gorumite ensures that only the bold and tough become frequent guests. It is from this meal program that the majority of new followers are recruited, producing classes of tough-as-nails fighters who go on to serve the city as guards and soldiers, enlist in the fighting academies, or else spread the worship of Gorum through the ranks of mercenaries.
You smell Kilkynn before you see him. The pungent odor of the cigars he favors wafts through the spartan living quarters. Each priest is afforded an identical room, more like a jail cell than a bedroom. A hammock, privy, dresser, and writing desk are all the amenities afforded to the Gorumites, and the quarters are identical both for the highest ranked priests and the lowliest initiate. You find the good Father hunched over his desk, attending to paperwork. He is dressed simply in a black robe, his fearsome armor stacked carefully on its stand. His greatsword is nowhere to be found, but Idris knows the man is an exceedingly dangerous combatant even when armed only with a chair leg, or barehanded. Hearing you enter, Kilkynn springs up from his work, chair flying backwards. His bright blue eyes lock onto yours, and a grin breaks out on his face. "My star pupil returns! And you, hell-spawn, have you come back to have a proper go at me?" Kilkynn extends his left hand to Idris in a warrior's clasp.
Bandits are a constant plague on the roads of Brevoy and the River Kingdoms. The general lawlessness of the area is an irresistible beacon to all sorts of brigands and ne'er-do-wells. You hear more stories of bandit activity than you can carefully catalog, though none of it matches the description of what your new friends have told you they fought, and who knows how much truth is in the town's scuttlebutt? Nobody you talk to knows anything about nymphs, the best-read among the fur trade knowing a few legends from saucy tales at best.
Sellemius frowns at your description of the cultists' activities. "That sounds downright blasphemous. I'll alert the city watch and our outriders to be wary of those bearing such marks. I've heard of no campaign against the plane-touched on these streets, but one cannot be too vigilant."
After you've given Sellemius your opinions on the fort and the Stolen Lands, the Mayor nods approvingly. Rising from his seat, he takes the newly-filled in map from the table and pins it to the wall, stroking his beard as he considers his words.
"We live in interesting times, worthy adventurers. You know the history of Brevoy, how it was forged in fire and blood from Issia and Rostland by Choral these two hundred some years ago. Two hundred years to the day of Choral taking the throne, every single descendant of his house, with even a drop of his blood, vanishes into thin air. Issia always fared better under his rule, having taken a knee before him like the dogs they are. The Surtovas were the worst of the lickspittles, and have leveraged their position under House Rogarvia to claim regency of the Dragonscale Throne, no doubt to keep it safe for the return of the rightful rulers."
Sellemius smiles ironically at those words. "Yet the Surtovas are not Rogarvia, and in the vacuum of power the old Houses are maneuvering. Rostland chafes under Surtova's yoke, and Issia dreads losing its vulture perch on these bountiful lands. Deals are made in the shadows, knives bared in the dark. The fanciful language at court disguises seething hatred and bitter vendettas. No House can move too overtly, lest its enemies strike back in a similar fashion. Surtova is not strong enough to rule this land, yet none are strong enough to take it from him. The nation lies balanced on the point of a sword, and the slightest breeze may topple us all into the fires of open war."
Sellemius turns back to you. "I will be blunt. Rostland needs friends. The southern Houses of Brevoy, including yours, Lady Medvyed, are not sufficient to see Rostland free again. The Stolen Lands present an unique opportunity. Brevoy regards those nameless tracks as her own, yet has never committed resources to its taming and reclamation. With the southern border pacified, Restov can commit more troops northward. With friendly settlements to the south, Restov can prosper from trade, an influx of materials, and stout sword-arms to stand at our side. Issia knows this; their spies abound, trying to sniff out my intentions. If I send settlers and warriors to reclaim the Stolen Lands, my play will be obvious and retaliation swift. Surtova is not popular, but he has sufficient allies to see the battle won; Houses divided between North and South will aid Surtova against an upstart Rostland. I therefore desire settlers to our south, yet cannot send them."
Sellemius pauses for a moment to let the import of his words settle in. "And that, worthy souls, is where you come in. With the agreement of the Swordlord Council, I have chartered you four groups to sound out the territory to the south. Three of you have returned, and the fourth is expected. Having proven your mettle in exploring and pacifying, however temporarily, that territory, I now offer you rulership of those lands."
"I cannot do so officially, mind you. I can, however, condone your efforts. After all, you are doing nothing more but reclaiming the land stolen from Brevoy! My duty to the Throne is to aid you. The river folks' saying quoted earlier gives you rule of the lands by fact. I can offer you legitimacy. It is within my authority to bestow ennoblement upon you for service to Restov, and with noble status comes the right to found your own Houses and take your own holdings - in the name of the Throne, of course. Though I cannot aid you in the light of day, I have my channels by which I can offer support to your settlement. Knowing nothing of my plans, you have stated to me your desire to hold and develop the keep which you liberated. I require nothing of you but support when Brevic blades are drawn against each other in daylight. Do you accept my offer? You may, of course, confer among yourselves."
Kivan decides to speak up to try and get some clarification.
"As you know some of us are noble and some are not. If we were to be ennobled what's to stop someone else from just saying that we aren't noble? Also, what can cause us to lose our nobility?"
"Ha, think you can get me like that? I think I should show you I've learned a trick or two," Idris thinks as she notices her old mentor's eyes telegraph his intentions. She gladly reaches out her left hand to clasp Kilkynn's wrist, but is fully prepared to dodge when he strikes out at her with his right.
Idris dodges and hits the warrior priest with a roundhouse punch, pulling it slightly to avoid doing more than dazing him for a moment.
"Ha! Not fast enough you old fox."
"Oof! I saw that coming, but you've still got some speed to you, old man."
Idris grins and adds, "We must have a proper bout between us while I'm here, and see how the sword you left for me works against yours. What were you doing in the Greenbelt anyway? Surely you didn't come all that way just to leave me a blade."
Pretty sees the man playing some trick, but as Idris is his pupil, they may have their own rituals. She quickly replies before checking however are they going to finish up this little joke. "Unlikely, being the target of a greatsword is still not on my plans..."
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Pretty shakes her head as Kivan speaks about nobility, apparently knowing nothing about it. "If you excuse us, we will confabulate on the subject and see whatever comes of this."
"I'm totally in. What about you?"
"I like the sound of it. Starting a settlement as an outpost to protect the southern border sounds like something we could handle - as long as we have enough hands to do the heavy lifting and money to purchase the supplies we need. Maybe Sellemius will unofficially provide some to us. I'm not thrilled about getting dragged into war and politics, but that's not to say I'm against accepting the Mayor's offer."
"I don't like this. This man is obviously already inclined against Issaners, and he plans on starting a civil war. While accepting his help would be nice we would then be indebted to him. The only ways to not get dragged into a war and keep our honor would be to either have another country pay off our debt or grow a kingdom so large and fast that almost everyone will notice. Finally, we could just accept his help and never pay him back if there is no legal contract involved."
Of course Kivan ruined her efforts to like him... "Don't be ridiculous. As he said, and we know it pretty well, he will be providing what he can undercover, that is to say, for his own benefit. We will own him nothing, but know this, if the Surtova seek war, every one should move against them, including us. You do remember their little dog, don't you? The one that wanted my head, and that you tried to save from death? Guess what, that devilish family is like that, and has always been. If I was brought into custody - for no reason, mind you - I was as good as dead in their hands! If we are to ally with someone, it should be the Swordlords! Otherwise we can still build our kingdom, but without his support it won't be long until Knight-Captain Nikolay Makarov show himself on our home, telling us that we are on New Stetven jurisdiction and that Noleski demands we hand over our profit..."
Idris is quiet during the discussion, unsure of what she wants to happen. The only point she makes is this: "If there is war, I want to be in it, and not as a footsoldier. I'd much rather be a general. That's my opinion."
Seraphina smiled to hear the Lord-Mayor's motivations stated plainly. "Good, I appreciate forthrightness and hope you do as well, Your Honor. My friend, Master Corsan, brings up a valid concern. We were accused of treason and threatened with arrest just for bearing your Charter, it's hard to imagine the Regent would respect your granted titles of nobility or our claim to the associated feudal holdings. In fact, it seems more likely we might be on the receiving end of that swift retaliation you mentioned before. One of the men in Baron Drelev's company is a Surtova himsef, is he not? Can you assure us the Regent is yet unaware of your strategy and not preparing to make an example of whomever accepts your offer? I spoke truly of my intention to watch over the citizens of the Greenbelt and bringing the attention of a suspicious and angry Regent onto them does not seem like a sound plan for protection to me. Nor does committing them to back you in an imminent civil war. I would be willing to pledge myself, but I cannot in good conscience draw settlers looking for peaceful farms and homesteads knowing I must pull a bait and switch someday very soon and call on them to march to war."
Her tone was still cordial and interested despite what she spoke. "And then there is myself to consider. Ennoblement is not the same enticement for me as it is for my fellows. What would serve me better would be to bring honor and respect to my House. Preferably to the degree which they would be disinclined to insist I return to Stoneclimb as my duties in the Stolen Lands are too crucial to abandon. I understand you can do little officially, and I am not one to discount covert aid. I trust you as a man of your word, I don't require wax-sealed parchment to feel assured of what you intend to do when the time comes. But I would like to hear more of what you can do to help us become established. What you would do if the Regent's ire were to fall upon us first and we found ourselves in need of friends." She regarded the Lord-Mayor intently, still smiling pleasantly.
Sera's eyes shone with excitement at the prospect of seeing her friends thus elevated.
"I know it's not what you want to hear, but if you are ever to be met on equal terms with those of established nobility, you will need an equivalent title as well as your own character and merit to back it up. Either that or the establishment of familial nobility has to be abolished the world over, and that distinctly less likely. We will have to prove ourselves still, but this is the way we become Lords of Ourselves in Truth."
"Firstly, I never tried to save that woman from death. I simply wanted her to have a trial first. Secondly, I'm not saying that the Survota family is good, but it seems that the mayor doesn't like people from Issia in general. There is a major difference between disliking a noble family that has earned it, and disliking everyone from an entire part of Brevoy. Thirdly, War destroys economies and makes many people lose family. It isn't something that we should rush towards when we might be able to solve things diplomatically. I'm not disagreeing with you Pretty, but I don't want a war that might be avoidable."
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Reading Kilkynn's intentions, Idris flicks her head to the side and out of the way of the priest's sudden punch. You return a blow of your own, which the man cross-blocks and deflects away before laughing heartily and embracing you warmly.
"Ever vigilant! As you were trained. You showed great promise when first you walked the yard of the Bulwark in New Stetven, and have not faltered from your path since. If my eyes deceive me not, you've seen your fair share of strife these past few months. I trust you've brought honor upon yourself and stand tall under our Lord's gaze. As to my business on the Rostland Road, I was simply moving between the Bastion and the Bulwark. As you know, my duties keep me moving between north and south frequently. This time I elected to take the scenic route, and pass by Oleg's on my way instead of taking a straight path along the plains. Your presence here indicates your mission is complete. Have you returned to us for further training? Your reluctant friend there could use a dose of toughening, I think."
"Yes, Kazimir is a Surtova, which is why I sent him to the west of your charter area. As you know, the east branch of the Sellen River is Brevoy's link to the Inner Sea - it flows between New Stetven and Absalom. Recently, boatmen have reported being attacked by frog-like creatures in a large lake in the Stolen Lands, and the shipments of cargo have all but stopped. These are all things that Noleski knows, and Kazimir cannot do harm by reporting. His presence is politically useful for me; I cannot be said to be operating against the Throne when my hand authorizes Surtovas's men in employ of my city and my treasury opens to them. Should that group succeed in clearing the infestation and establishing an outpost, Kazimir wins glory for himself - lessening his loyalty to Noleski - and with my seal on the orders I have evidence of working for the benefit of the Throne. Drelev is another irritant, and the two are well served together. Of the heads of expeditions sent from Restov, Drelev is the least worthy. I additionally assigned Numestri to that group - he is a good man who has my trust, and secret orders to intercept any letters Kazimir sends. Kazimir undoubtedly knows this, so any missives will be coded. Fortunately, I have a traitor among Noleski's court, of whom I will not speak, who will provide me with the cypher."
Sellemius smiles, showing his hands spread before him. "Observe the cut and thrust of politics. It is not unlike dueling - you must be four steps ahead of your opponent in the dance of parry and riposte. It vexed me at first, but I have come to enjoy it. Noleski knows my plans, I have no doubt about it. He is not a stupid man, and only a stupid man cannot appreciate the bolstering of Rostland's position by a secure southern border. To move against me, however, he would need to show clear evidence of my working against him, and that he shall not have."
Sellemius stands, moving back to the map on the wall, and jabs his fingers across Brevoy's lands. "Surtova sits on the throne in New Stetven. His holdings to the northwest are secure. Garess remains neutral, as always, more akin to their dwarven partners than they'd care to admit. Lodovka and Orlovsky staff Surtova's armies, yet would gladly turn upon each other without his leadership. Orlovsky has not yet forgotten their embarrassment in losing Acuben, and likely never will. Medvyed chafes under Surtova, yet has long enjoyed ties with Orlovsky and is cordial with Garess. Lebeda cares for neither Restov nor Surtova, and would gladly take their leave of both had they not need of Surtova's armies against the barbarians at their borders. Rogarvia is vanished, and a hundred lesser Houses vie for their piece of Rostland. Lebeda thinks to expand further into Rostland, Medvyed would claim the forest to the southern point of the Valley of Fire, but Rostlanders see them as Issian still and rebuff their advances."
The Lord Mayor turns back to you. "Observe, then, the fracturing of Brevoy. Their are no clear lines, and no true friends. All parties involved are slow on the offensive, at cross purposes with their allies, yet will swiftly rise united to crush an upstart who threatens all. I need not fool Surtova - I need only to muddle the issue in the minds of the others. None are acting rashly; open war is not desired by any. Your presence in the Stolen Lands is proper; it is within my powers as Lord Mayor of Restov; it is sufficiently beneficial to the Throne to not arouse the ire of the Houses. I would not throw you before wolves!"
Sellemius leans on the table. "Numestri is my man, and is in danger on my behalf. Should he fall in this undertaking, I have pledged to marry his widow, to adopt his children as my heirs, and to make the fortunes of his family my own. I take care of my friends."
He shoots a glance at Kivan. "And that, Master Corsan, is the strength behind a granted title of nobility. What makes a noble? If I may say so without offense, Lady Medvyed, a nobleman is not made of finer clay than others. Nobles possess wealth, and land, and sword-arms. What say has a serf in the affairs of those whose land he works, and whose taxes he pays at swordpoint? Nobles marry Nobles and birth Noble children, and commoners marry commoners and birth future field workers. In this manner power is constrained in the hands of a few, to rule over the many. Is it a just system? Perhaps not. It is certainly preferable to the murderous anarchy of Galt. But I digress - you will have titles of nobility. You will have land. You will have wealth, for as you can see, rulership is fairly lucrative." Sellemius waves a hand at the opulence surrounding you. "And you will have sword-arms. Your own, those of your hirelings, eventually your armies. You will also have the backing of the Swordlords, as my authority derives from the Swordpact which governs all Aldori. Questioning the validity of your titles calls my honor into question for raising you to that status." Sellemius shows teeth. "And I have ways of repaying those who question my honor. I am surprised, Master Corsan. I find arcanists are usually quite sanguine about the nature of power."
Sellemius then turns to Seraphina, looking candidly into her eyes. "Lady Medvyed, you are of course correct that there is little gain in me offering what was yours by birth. I think, however, that I have your measure, which I will state plainly: You have ambitions, far greater than your House has chosen for you. I mean no advance by this, but you have beauty, and breeding, education, and poise. A marriage of alliance to another House, bought with your maidenhead and womb, would benefit your elders greatly - and only cost your hopes, your dreams, your designs, and consign you to a life of banal pleasantness at interminable court functions. I commiserate; should that be my fate I would fall upon the first blade left in my presence. I sometimes count myself fortunate to be a base-born bastard: Freedom is a heady drug and a finer wealth than the palaces of Taldor. I will make you an offer in the manner of the criminal syndicates of the black market, in stead of ennoblement: I will owe you a favor, exact terms to be determined. If you have one in mind now, say it and it will be yours."
"I'll do some sparring while I am here, certainly, but not for a long time. I've found... well, found something worth returning to in the Greenbelt. As for our mutual friend -- Pretty, I hope you don't mind me boasting on your behalf -- Sir, I have seen her defending herself alone against half a dozen foes, not one landing a strike on her. While we were coming here, a foul magical beast managed to capture her with a ruse, and delivered her to some cultists. Alone, she slipped her bonds, stole a key, and killed the madman who led them, rescuing herself even as we rode to her rescue. She needs toughening only to the same extent that we all do."
Idris is surprised when she learns that the Mayor was a base-born bastard. The dueling academy failed to mention that, only talking of his skill with the blade and the honor that his ascension to the post of Lord Mayor had brought to the city. Obviously the assertions that a commoner orphan like herself couldn't expect to rise in society were lies.
She is still not sure exactly what to say in answer to the offer, murmurs to Seraphina, "I'll do what you decide... these politics are too confusing for me."
Pretty is impressed that Idris has her in such a high esteem. "Well, thanks Idris, and you're absolutely right. The everyday does enough to toughen me already, so I avoid any more bruising when I can. But tell us, gorumite, how is business around town? Is the place still prosperous as it was when the Lord-Mayor assumed? Cause if you're traveling north and south I assume there's a lot to be done, right?"
"Yeah, I figured, but even then the Surtova's dogs will be looking for trouble, but they are not all that smart, nor they understand too much about politics. Everyone keeps their legitimacy just by pretending they are doing it for some reason. It's the same Noleski is doing with the throne, as he is pretending to be the regent until the Rogarvia disappearance is solved. Which, by the way, never will. Anyway, that favors us greatly as they won't have so much legitimacy to go against Restov and, specially, to draw us from the lands we cleared and maintained."
"Plus, if worst comes to bear, we will have friends in all of Brevoy, since there's no love lost between the Surtovas and everyone else. That is to say, not only Restov and the swordlords, but also houses Garess, Medvyed and probably Lebeda. It's a win-win situation for us. Furthermore, no one has tamed the Stolen Lands for hundreds of years. It is a challenge we still need to overcome, and until that task is done no one will be interested in the Greenbelt. Of course that may take decades, so we have the time."
Pretty tries a new strategy: convincing everyone based on their own motivations. "Well, Kivan, if you don't want war you should be first in line to settle in the Greenbelt. The power balance is constantly shifting in Brevoy so, first, establishing a settlement in the south will increase the local power, making it less likely the Surtova try anything stupid. Second, it takes us all away from the fray, since we will be in the middle of nowhere, where no ruler will want to be for decades, until we clear and maintain the region for good. And when we do that, our destiny will be in our hands, and not in someone else's."
"Common Idris, you need to make up your mind! They have enough instructors and apprentices here already, you should build a new training ground on our future settlement! Doesn't that sound too appealing to pass out?"
Either that or the establishment of familial nobility has to be abolished the world over, and that distinctly less likely. We will have to prove ourselves still, but this is the way we become Lords of Ourselves in Truth.
Pretty loves the idea, but does not mention it. "Indeed it's the only way, Sera, you know that, right? If you go back with that... heritage of yours, you'll suffer as much as I did, and it wasn't easy, I tell you."
She looks at Milo and realizes the man would be the first one in line to settle in the Greenbelt, so he did not need convincing, but Maja was a different matter entirely, although it should not be hard, too...
"I believe you have decided for yourself already, right Maja? The wilderness have called you since the day we found that stag, or am I wrong?"
"Pretty, I'm going back no matter what everyone else does. You know why."
"A training ground would be an excellent idea, though. I like it..."
Seraphina's manner became studious as she paid close attention to Sellemius's summary of Brevoy's politics. Her smile fell away as she came to fully understand Terrion Numesti's situation. "Master Terrion must love you well and trust you completely to have agreed to those terms. We spoke with him only briefly, but I hope he understood he could come to us for aid, if he had need of it."
She nodded along with the Lord-Mayor's speech on the nature of nobility and a traitorous blush painted her cheek as he spoke aloud of her looming 'marital crisis', as she had come to think of it. She thought over his words, 'Am I so ambitious?' She thought perhaps she was, which was a different answer than she had expected. Power hovered before her, both political and the magical might of her ancestry. She need only reach out and take it, and if she laid claim to one, she would likely need the other to keep those she cared for safe and protected, as well as herself.
She walked to stand beside Kivan in a show of support. "It is worth mentioning that many Issian are a capable and hardy folk. My people learned to live off the land, how to be frugal and efficient enough to scrape a living from our meager resources. Fishermen and their families eat their catch for every meal and suffer sailor's ailments rather than lie down with the Surtova dogs and join in raiding and piracy."
She moved back toward the Lord-Mayor, and then turned to face out toward her companions. Her manner now was proud and deadly serious. "Truth is not offensive. You have all seen that my blood is as red as yours and runs just as freely when I am cut. But it is not mere happenstance that word 'noble' was chosen to name this status. It is meant to signify a noble spirit and require of those who bear the title to uphold a standard of character and conduct. We have all met Nobles unworthy of the name. Often power has a corrupting influence on those who covet it and soon what noble spirit they possessed is corroded away and replaced with apathy for their people and an insatiable avarice. But despite that, the meaning of the word noble remains intact. My father told us, 'They call us noble so that we will never forget what is expected of us. Protecting the people is our most honored duty and your own reputation is our first line of defense. Shame upon him that fails to guard his holdings and his people, especially against his own self.' He spoke to my brothers that day, but I heard him and took his words to heart all the same. We should look with scorn upon those who use their titled position as a pretext for preying on and oppressing their own people. We should speak their noble names with terrible irony for they demean the honorific. So even though we are not made of different stuff than any commoner, we must hold ourselves and each other to a higher standard as the fate of many depend upon our actions." Her gleaming copper eyes flashed fiercely as they passed over the Lord-Mayor, as if challenging him to argue.
Her face softened as she turned back to her friends, "Leaders must have the trust and respect of their citizens, not because they are more powerful and demand it. But because the day may come when danger threatens and the populace must rally to order quickly or else lives will be lost in panicked confusion. That trust will only exist where people are not confident in their leader, thus we use the name Noble to remind them that they must also be worthy of it. But I am not hesitant on the subject of your worthiness to take up a noble title. You have all shown me your noble spirit and I trust that you will take the duty seriously. Let us decide our course."
"I think we should accept the Lord-Mayor's offer and ally ourselves with Rostland. We have seen first hand how the Regent's law-bringers conduct themselves. It will not be long before Surtova's tyranny goes beyond tolerance. We must be ready."
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"We fought together in my mercenary days," says Sellemius of Numesti. "I got knocked out by a sling-stone at the battle of Halther's Ford, and Terrion stood over me with sword and shield until the Tymonese quit the field. I parried a spear-thrust meant for his neck while we wiped out the goblins of the Boarwood on contract from whoever was running Galt at the time, and backed him up when he started a brawl in a taphouse in Daggermark. Amazing how many assassins that place has. Terrion and I are as brothers, you may trust him as you'd trust me. You may wish to make his acquaintance, Sister Weatherseed - his younger daughter Iona is in training to serve Erastil as you do."
After you have been conferring for some time, Sellemius moves closer to your conference and motions for your attention. "The hour grows late, worthies, and my duties to the city cannot be put off much longer. I would have your response."
"Well, I've made my point. Maja, Idris, Milo and myself have made their decisions. We need a final word from Kivan and Sera."
"Imagine all the wondrous things you could study and write on that notebook of yours, wizard!"
"Very well, against my better judgement I will accept your offer."
"I've given my vote. I say we go for it, the titles will bind us to the land in a way that even the Regent himself should not ask us to leave it. Maja, I know you never had aspirations like this but a noble title will not make it more difficult to lead your congregation, but it will give your voice the power and influence you will need to protect them. Kivan, you will likewise be better able to create a school that commands the respect of all."
Seraphina looked saddened to hear of Lydia's situation, "I'm sorry to say it, Maja. But there is nothing to prevent this nobleman from marrying your friend now, if he were inclined to do so. It's likely his family would oppose the match, but if he truly loved her and his child he would see it done anyway. Nobility isn't something that should be granted arbitrarily, but perhaps there is something else we can do to aid her." She patted her shoulder and then turned to tell the Lord-Mayor of their decision.
"We are in agreement. If civil war should threaten Brevoy, we will stand with Rostland. We will need help with building structures and roads as we are not builders by trade. How may we go about contacting you if we have need?"
"I will hold the favor you offer in reserve for now, but I understand we have you to thank for assigning Lord Kesten Garess and his Free Irregulars to protect the Trading Post? I would like to commend their service, they have performed admirably and defended their post with honor. Would not for their aid, we might not all be standing here to accept your generous offer. I've heard unfortunate rumors concerning Lord Garess, but I can attest that I've seen no such crude behavior... I would see less disparaging things said of such an honorable and courageous warrior."
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The lord-mayor smiles at your agreement. "Splendid. You will, of course, be attending my birthday ball. It is only fitting that heroes of the realm are honored and rewarded amidst such pomp and circumstance. It will be a good introduction to such functions, which come as part and parcel with your new standings. You'll grow to hate them less, I promise. After the public festivities are done, we will retire for business. There are many important people who shall be in attendance, and who will no doubt wish to meet and make arrangements with you. The ball is exactly one week from tonight. In the meantime, you may enjoy the Free City - I have no doubt it'll be a welcome change from the roughness of the wilderness. As you are here as my honored guests, I have instructed the proprietor of the Liefmoore Arms to reserve you each a room at his establishment at no cost to you. You may also call upon my squire, whom I will introduce to you on the morrow. The lad's a bright one, and takes to his studies well. It will be advantageous to his learning to instruct you on various and sundry affairs that concern nobility. Lady Medvyed no doubt will correct any errors or omissions he makes, but he will be a fine source of information for you. As fine a source, I venture, as your example and deeds will be to him. As for contacting me in a covert manner, send a messenger to me with inquiries about the state of honey production either in your demesne or mine. I am fond of riddles, and shall respond to any hidden messages I can suss out in a similar manner. If time is pressing, no doubt one among you will shortly posses the magical ability to converse at great distance - a commodity which I am sorely lacking at my court, as it happens. I need not explain why physical messages must not be hazarded. Very well then, duty calls. You have the run of my holdings and the obedience of my staff. Lady Medvyed, I appreciate your words on Kesten's behalf. He is a good man, but I assure you his reputation is not entirely unearned. To put it politely, he may be a proficient swordsman, but allows his blade to lead him into trouble and knows not when to sheathe it. I'm not sure his House is entirely just in their treatment of him, but their loss is my gain, as he is a capable man and a stout fellow to have among the sword-arms available to Restov. Until the morrow, worthies."
With a flourish and bow, Sellemius strides from the room to attend to his business. You have run of the city for the week, then.
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Kilkynn cocks his head at Pretty, reconsidering. "More spark to you when up against the wall, eh? Better than nothing - all Gorum asks is that when the chips are down, you're swinging. Business is good, hell-spawn. War is good business, and there's plenty of it in this corner of the world. I don't care for the coin as much as the fighting, but unfortunately one must deal with currency to run things. Restov is indeed prosperous. It's known as the Free City - unlike other places all are welcome in its walls so long as blades stay sheathed. Plenty of folks come here to find work who aren't welcome other places. It's a good place to make a fresh start: Nobody asks too many questions, and if you've got a sword-arm you'll not go hungry. Mercs like their ale and women, so the taphouses rake in coin as well, and the craftsmen make a fine living supplying war material and trinkets. Plenty of trade too - such a variety of folk have a wide list of demands to fill and those hearty enough to caravan here find it well worth their while. Less gloomy than New Stetven too, the Lord-Mayor's a fair bit more tolerable than most of his type, certainly a better man than Surtova."
The warpriest stubs his cigar out against the wall. "You speak in riddles, Idris. What pulls a duelist away from the rings of honor and into the wild? A bear or boar is better fought with spear than sword, and heaps of hides bring you no advancement in rank."
After taking your leave of the lord mayor, you are guided out of the palace and reclaim your bags from the stables. Gratifyingly, a trio of sturdy looking guards stand watch over your belongings to ensure their safe return. Nix waits patiently and silently for his master's return, breaking into a casual lope to stand by Milo's side when called. As you gather your stuff, a stable-hand approaches you. "Honored Guests, if I may extend to you an invitation. The Lord-Mayor's stables are the finest in the city - no expense or labor is spared in the treatment of the steeds stabled within. You are welcome to leave your mounts in our care. If I may be so bold, they've seen hard use and could do with grooming, good feed, and my ministrations; I am blessed with a small amount of healing magik which I have dedicated to the well-being of equines. Horsemanship is my passion, and your horses shall not be better cared for anywhere else in the city. As the Lord-Mayor's honored guests, there will of course be no charge for my services."
The way to the inn is not far by foot, and the fresh air is welcome after the confines of the palace, luxurious as it is. The streets are busy, and your way is blocked when a wagon carrying barrels of ale suffers a broken wheel, tipping on its side and disgorging its cargo across the lane. Heavy barrels make short work of the stand of a sweetmeat vendor, and a pair of brazen urchins attempt to make off with a purloined hogshead, the wagoneer in hot pursuit. Between the debris, wagon, barrels, and bystanders, the road is blocked. Fortunately, a handy alleyway between a silversmith's workshop and a cloth merchant's warehouse offers a short detour around the mess.
As soon as you're off the street, the noise and crowd melt away into comparative quiet and darkness of the alleyways. The cramped passages wind between nondescript buildings, mostly houses. Wells periodically provide water sources, and gutters carved into the side of the walkways channel dumped filth into the sewers.
Idris, leading the party through the maze, turns a corner and finds a rapier pointed at her throat. The blade is held by a lithe woman in a broad hat and dandy's clothes dyed the blue and gold of the Swordpact Society. Loitering nearby are two similarly dressed men, tabards bearing the Society's heraldry donned over top of dark-dyed leathers. None of the ambushers are wielding aldori dueling swords - these are but disguises. Two more men appear to block off escape routes, and a pair of burly men hefting cobbles appear on the roofs of the buldings flanking the passageway.
"Hello, sweetheart," says the woman. "I know who you are, and you likely can guess who we are. You are not our target, but a means to an end. Tell me where the orc is and walk free. Make one wrong move and find out why the name of Daggermark is a name spoken of in hushed whispers at night."
Pretty of course never fails a perception check, so she knew this was too weird when it finally happened. She drawed her daggers, hoping not to have to use them, but of course that would not be so easy. Idris would not tell them what they wanted to know, and even if Pretty could lie skillfully enough to convince them, it would only delay their action to a later and more troublesome point. They would need to deal with them now!
So the tiefling tried to rush past Idris and the woman, flanking the assassin (who either way would probably not be flanked) and drawing her attention away from Idris who could get rid of that rapier in her throat.
Milo chuckles at the sight of the overturned beer wagon and the resulting chaos. But his mood quickly changes in the alleyway as he looks up, noticing the men on the roof. Nix growls at the ones who have snuck up behind the group. When the woman starts speaking, Milo isn't sure who this orc is, but its obvious that these people are up to no good. Observing that Pretty hasn't taken time to talk, Milo places a hand on Nix's flank and whispers something under his breath in elvish. May your bite be as sharp as the winter wind. The wolf's teeth gleam white in the shadows and she pads forward to put herself between Kivan and the rearmost assassin.