"That's likely to happen anyway, Maja. Hmm... we could do something where we say that Gorum is the official patron of our military, and Erastil the official patron of our civilian authorities... or something. As for marrying, well... Sera, I remember Jantle implying that you would pretty much have to marry someone, just because, well, politics. For me, if I'm the warden or something, I'm not important enough that I would have to marry. Maja, if you don't want to marry someone, but people are pressing you to, saying you're honoring the memory of, ah... Welden, right? That should be enough to make them shut their mouths."
"I'm just wanting to figure out what they want us to ban, precisely. If they want us to ban the creation, control, care and feeding of undead, that sounds reasonable. If like Kivan is saying, they're banning everything from that whole field of magic, it sounds hard to even implement in practice. I don't want to have to knock down doors and search through wizards' spellbooks for banned spells unless there are really damn good reasons for those specific spells being banned. And if the magic comes from the blood, like Sera's? She didn't ask for the spells she has."
Seraphina nodded appreciatively, "Ah, my thanks for the explanation, Captain Barlomanth. I can see how the formal challenge helps to preserve life and limb. I hope we shan't have need to trouble you again, and I thank you for all your help and understanding."
Sera was pleased that Iona would accompany them shopping and smiled excitedly at the fun they would have. "I suspect I'll have no problem getting you into something suitable, but you must promise to help with me with the others. We'll likely have to grease Idris like a pig to wrestle her into even a Courtier's dress!" She grinned at Idris and winked at Iona conspiratorially.
Milo scans through the list, recognizing some, but not all, of the names. "Who are Bara and Kesten Garess?"
Noticing that some of the positions are left open, and hearing Pretty's remark, Milo adds "Pretty, I agree with you on Guy - he might not want to be tied down in one place, for one thing. Hmm, do you think Oleg or Svetlana would be interested in helping us out? He does good business running that trading post, and she sure has a way of making people feel included and welcome."
Seraphina asked Jantle to excuse them while they talked over their private business, not wanting to give the young man any conflicts of interest. "Hmm, do you think Guy would not be interested? Or do you worry that he would be a bad choice? Given that he knows of us and our allies, I thought it might be best to bind him to us if possible. Diplomats really must be skilled actors, and I thought with his nationality, he might be helpful when dealing with Mivon." Her expression said that she was not married to the idea, though, and that she certainly valued their input. Answering Milo's question about the Levetons, she said, "Dear Oleg and Svetlana might indeed be helpful, but I would hate to ask them. They worked hard to establish themselves somewhere quiet. I almost feel we would do them a disservice by our good intentions of building our nation alone. If we made them politicians or civil servants they might never forgive us!" She chuckled, mulling over the irony of her statement... now that she herself was about to join those ranks.
Aldifierri shrugs, taking a long pull on his mug. ”Truth be told, mostly the stretch of river between Mivon and Restov, and not much else. What kind of work are we talking about?” The brawny actor follows your look to the other laborers. ”Need stuff hauled? You’ve come to the right bar. But I,” he says, jingling the purse just earned by his performance, ”have gold enough for now, with plenty to spend in relaxation before stocking up for my return trip. No blood-crazed brutes looking for my head or orc blades pointed at me in here, neither, so feel free to shop your work out to one of these fine gentlemen.”
Guy nods at Milo. ”Oh, Everfield. I knew I’d seen you before. Nice little town, nice little bar. As for the play, well, I am but an actor playing a part. My strings are held by the author’s pen.”
Sera shook her head in disappointment, "Well, I am glad for your good fortune, Master Aldifierri. And in truth, we do need laborers, builders, road makers, and others too. But that is not why I came to you. Perhaps it's a personal quirk, but it distresses me to see talented folk with such a passion for their art displaced into work they are less suited to out of necessity. I thought you might be interested to know that we will soon be building a community in those lands. It will take some time to raise, but I am already sure we must have a Theatre before long. Maybe by then, your purse will weigh on you less heavily. But if I am mistaken and you are happy in your current niche, I suppose we shall see you pass through on your next trek. I hope you will remember us more favorably when next we meet." She laid her hand on his bare shoulder, leaning toward his ear to speak her next words quietly so as not to be overheard by the other patrons. "And really, you need not fear our half-orc friend. Her actions speak louder than her words, and though she threatened your life once... she has preserved it twice. And at great risk to her own, I might add. We'll be staying at the Liefmoore Arms, if you should like to talk again before we head back." She offered him a friendly smile and patted his arm and then left him on his own if that still seemed to be what he wanted.
Seraphina, unlike her companions, took dressing for the Ball very seriously. Beyond her specifications for a modest cut, she requested only one thing of Madame Ivirska; to look resplendent! The enthusiastic clothier had not missed her mark as the exquisite gown would likely look out of place anywhere but a Ball. The indigo lace of the bodice clung to her curves, strategically sheer in only a few key places and decidedly opaque with swirling embroidery, amethyst stones and shining bead-work where it needed to be. The gown was a dark, saturated purple at the top and then faded down the length of it to first a royal blue, the shade then growing paler to a delicate sky color at the hem. But just as the clinging, lacy fabric was tight enough to qualify as a second skin, the skirts seemed hardly attached to her at all. The shimmering fabric cascaded in billowy layers from her cinched waist down to the floor, wafting and fluttering with the air as she moved like a gossamer cloud conveyed her along rather than her own legs. The high neckline gave her the freedom to do what she wished with her hair and she carefully crafted her elaborate coiffure and applied her makeup, taking careful measures to disguise the scales that lined her eyes with her coppery colored makeup.
She was congenial as ever to the coachmen and greeted Jantle warmly. "Good evening, Master Jantle. My, but you do clean up well You cut quite a handsome figure in your dress uniform!" Her courtly manners at their peak, Sera swished a deep and graceful curtsy as she was introduced and smiled in genuine excitement and greeting.
"Oh no, certainly not." She answered Maja's bewildered query, lowering her voice. "Not all parties are like this, to be sure. But then this night is not about mere frivolity, the Lord-Mayor conducts serious business here tonight. The extravagance you see is partly for our benefit, but it is also a show of power." She raised her eyebrows significantly. Sera returned the greetings of their new friends and scanned the gathering for other faces she might know.
Seraphina raised her hand in a friendly greeting when she caught sight of Lady Alynne Nohouse. She was not sure if the woman would remember her, but she was almost certain they had met before.
Sera was somewhat reserved in her eating at the ball, not diving in with her usual gusto... the gown was not of a forgiving design, after all. She made sure to check for poison as discretely as possible, but she made sure to safeguard her friends as well as herself. She clapped for ROSTLAND and stood straight and tall as the Lord-Mayor began the ennobling, beaming proudly at her friends. She said the words with gravity, realizing these vows granted her some wiggle room concerning her familial duties just as they bound her to their Salvaged Lands. “I so comprehend. I so accept. I so understand. I so agree. I so swear.”
She gasped in shock with everyone else, turning to stare daggers at the Iomedian as he denounced her friend, her Pretty. She felt the bile rising inside of her like a tidal wave and her hands twitched reflexively, her claws itching like mad to come out. She had to take a moment to remember where she was and what was at stake. She must not give her emotions reign. Still she stared with a clenched jaw and slitted eyes, daring the fool to move on them. Wishing to see him spitted on Ioseph's blade. Non-violent and truthful as it was, this was an assault on one of her own. Pretty's very life depended upon keeping her secret and this was an attack as sure as if he had slashed at her with a blade. He had outed her, in front of the gods and everyone and made her a target. She might have laughed at the insulting sign, but for once, Sera was deadly serious. She hissed to Pretty in whispered Draconic. "He will pay for that... mark my words!"
She regained some composure, out of surprise if nothing else, when Sellemius confirms that he knew of Pretty's heritage. She wondered how the devil they both figured it out... and if they knew about herself as well. It took some time to purge the angry thoughts from her mind, but watching Maja and Milo dance did much to brighten her mood. She happily accepted and danced with the Ranger as well, finding his exuberance contagious.
Not really one to ask a man to dance, she generally waited until someone asked her. But she made one exception... and approached the Lord-Mayor. "Happy Birthday, my Lord. I fear I did not know if bringing a gift would be proper... but perhaps a dance would be acceptable?" She gave him her best beguiling smile, remembering the rumor Madame Ivirska had told her. She was feeling a bit mischievous and thought it might be nice if the ball-goers had something else to talk about besides Pretty's outing.
Shocked to silence for the second time tonight, she merely shared glances with her companions, thinking darkly, "And then there were three..."
Sera smiled, but for once it was not in greeting or welcome. More of a thinly veiled baring of teeth. She said nothing to the man himself and let Milo lead with his questions. When the private discussion began, she nodded in agreement with Maja. "You know that word, monopoly? If we agreed to that, we would not even have the right to harvest our own lumber from our lands. We would have to pay them for our own wood! And they would have carte blanche to take every tree if they desired. Don't be fooled my friends, this is no deal. It's an offer of a cheap buy-in to strip our land of it's natural resources and extract the wealth of our nation. Do you think such mercenaries would give a moments thought to the fey they might displace? No, WE are the stewards of our lands and it is an honor, not a nuisance to barter away for gold."
Again, she kept quiet and waited for the private conversation. "Maja, of course I want to see you achieve your dream. But like Pretty, I have concerns about what the ramifications of having an official religion are. Are the people still free to worship as they will? Would other churches still be welcomed within our lands? I agree that Erastil makes the most sense given the community we want to build. But we do not all believe as one and doesn't having an "official" religion suggest that we do?"
Sera was impressed by Kivan's speech, but she felt like maybe they were missing a key factor. "Do you suppose, since it's Pharasma and her Bone Yard we're talking about that they might not mean the ENTIRE school of necromancy, but of merely outlawing the raising of undead? If they do mean all necromancy spells, I would have to agree with Kivan. But undead are unatural... Kivan, if she just means outlawing the creation of undead, would you then be agreeable?"
Seraphina brightened, "I have a thought about that compromise, Idris. What if we build an arena dedicated to Gorum? We could have festivals around our Arena tournaments where combatants fight to the submission and award a prize to the winner. It might also provide a means of utilizing the formal challenge among your Aldori followers." She smiled thinking of something else it might help with too... like a very public faked death...
"Thank you my Lord, we will not fail you."
With no one opposed to the Paladin's pleas, Seraphina rose and moved to help the kneeling man to his feet. "Thank you for the sentiment, but I'm afraid no one can apologize for what has been done other than him that did it. Even then, it would be a paltry balm for a grievous injury. You cannot answer for his harm, but neither would you be judged for it. We don't believe in such a thing as a taint. Everyone, no matter their birth or circumstances is corrupted or redeemed by their own deeds. Our new home is still rough and raw, but if you will accept the burden of being pioneers, you will be welcomed. Where are your people? Will you need aid to gather them?"
Milo considers Seraphina's comments. "It doesn't hurt to ask Guy, as long as he understands that such a position is a serious thing, not to be taken lightly. He couldn't just wander off if he decided to act in a play in Mivon, or some such. I'm not sure about the Leventons either. I hope that if we asked them, they would not feel obliged."
"Alright, Idris probably needs a break from talking to all those swordlings," Milo agrees, when Maja suggests he ask her to dance. During a break in her conversation, he asks "Idris, would you care to join me on the dance floor?"
"Um... I'm not much of a dancer... and I'm not dressed in a ballgown... but I guess... alright."
Idris goes out to dance with Milo...
..and keeps trying to lead instead of follow, leading to repeated mixups, but frequent laughter at her own ineptness.
She finds she doesn't mind the company of this man too much, even though she hasn't spent much time with him yet.
Pretty crosses her arms before answering to Sera. "It's pretty simple. I don't trust Aldifierri. I think he sold Bara's information to the assassins."
The rogue watches Sera's anger rise, but she tries to use it in a better way. "He is just a fool, Sera. Someone taken by the madness of their duty. Let it go. Remember who the enemy is."
"It's pretty simple. I don't trust Aldifierri. I think he sold Bara's information to the assassins."
Idris's mouth drops open when Pretty says this. She is silent for a few moments, then grits her teeth, her face becoming red and angry. "That bastard! I'll kill him! I'll kill him, bring him back to life, then kill him again!"
Pretty scratches her hair, very close to where her horn should be. "Take it easy Idris, that's just some intuition. I have no proof about that, and even the dates do not match, but I don't trust him."
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Jantle swallows hard and blushes at Seraphina’s compliment. ”You’re too kind, Lady Medvyed. You look resplendent as well.”
None of the food appears to have been poisoned.
Tumultuous laughter greets Kivan’s prank, appreciative applause mingling with the hoots of amused partygoers. Brywick doesn’t see the sign but flushes a hot, angry red at whatever humiliation has been heaped upon him as he stalks out.
Nobody seems to know from where the message originated, save one. Terran twists around to shoot Kivan a look, his face carefully expressionless.
Sellemius graciously accepts Seraphina’s invitation to dance, offering an arm and taking you to the dance floor. The Lord-Mayor’s mithril armor is polished to a mirror finish and seems not to hinder him in any way. As you take the floor, the minstrels begin a waltz, an old Rostlandic instrumental commonly titled “Hither have I come, no further shall I go”. Unsurprisingly, Sellemius’ footwork is impeccable and his movements exactingly precise. He dances with an ease that suggests training and practice, and when you face the crowd you are acutely aware that many eyes are upon you. The arm around your waist is strong and confident, and the hand with which he leads you is rough with callouses that are sharply out of place compared to the otherwise complete picture of nobility which the baseborn Mayor affects. From the gleam in his eye and a carefully appreciative glance at your plumage, you get the sense that Madame Ivirska’s comments about his preferences are far off the mark. When you mention Brywick’s indiscretion, however, Sellemius’ face hardens from subtle expression to guarded distaste.
”Your magi’s comment will suffice to describe the good ser knight. I am not sorry that he rose not to the occasion. His quarrel is not with me, and spilling blood upon this floor would ruin an evening that is becoming more pleasant by the moment. I must conceal my sources from you, but your companion’s identity has long been known to me. I do not hold her deception against her, I should do the same in her stead. We do not choose our birth,” he comments as you spin to a flourish in the song. ”Far better to judge a soul by the company they keep.”
Solanus Kasay considers Kivan coolly from his seat. ”All are welcome within the Society of Blade and Word. As a guest, you may have full access to our halls of debate, where our students test their wordcraft, logic, and knowledge against each other and all comers. You may also have limited access to our library – as a guest you will be expected to contribute knowledge equal to that which you are lent. Authoring lectures or allowing our scribes to copy rare texts are acceptable payment in kind. We do not accept coin, for what money can compare to the sublime worth of knowledge and understanding?”
Pallasar DeCierre leans back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other knee, and furrows his brows in thought as he ponders Idris' request. "We can't have an Initiate teaching a school, now can we? How would you like to demonstrate to good Master Brokav your worthiness to advance in rank - in person, and publicly?"
Lady Alynne Nohouse stands as Maja approaches her and speaks. ”Well I never,” she laughs, after hearing your story. ”Never figured myself as the inspiring type. Just did what I felt right, but good that it helped you set your own sail. S’what brought me to Restov in the first place, nobody gives a tinker’s damn where you’re from, long as you can swing a sword well and represent your teachers. My family? F&&# ‘em. I’ve got new family now, the Swordlords stand by you thick and thin. Good on ya for standing up to your church. Follow your heart, you can’t go wrong.”
Foreman Calt’s soul feels wrong to Maja, like a rusty knife dragged across your teeth. As far as motive, that’s clear enough: The lure of profit drives this man.
”Sure thing,” he replies to Milo. ”We show up, clear out the trees fast as you please. Best axe-swingers this side o’ the Inner Sea. We tidy up behind, no sloppy business like leaving trash an’ old mills behind. If’n the landowner wants it replanted, we’ll replant it. Extra charge, of course – labor ain’t free. Sometimes we’ll leave stumps, sometimes burn what’s left clear t’ the ground – grasses over quick enough. See us in action, you’ll sure agree you won’t need any other outfit ‘sides the Consortium.”
Road Walker Donnaeus smiles gently at Maja. ”Don’t keep your burdens on your shoulders alone, Sister. A burden shared is less than the sum of its parts, and you’ll be stronger for the sharing. Remember that, when you’re with your companions here in the hard times ahead. No mistake, you’ll see more hard times afore you rest – but nothing good ever happens without work. As for the Church, I don’t see any bishops here, just you. When you were a pup back at your chapel, you were the child in the care and guidance of parents. You’re grown now, in any way you’d care to measure. Sending a priest to order you about would be like walking into a man’s home and telling him his business. Keep to the Parables and do right by your people, you’ll be fine. The Old Hunter will let you know if you’re straying, sure as the sun comes up.”
Kilkynn shakes his head to Idris. ”Not my call. I go where the Bulwark and the Bastion tell me I’m needed. Petition them if you’d like. Anywhere there’s a good fight in the making is a place for me. Hey, and if they tell you no, crack a few heads and see if the Master Adherents don’t change their tune. If you set up a temple-fortress in your town, as here, won’t be much of a stretch for me to extend my range and keep my duties.”
Vengeful Guardian Myllaen again speaks briskly. ”The law of our goddess is simple. Necromancy is a foul art which must not be practiced at all. Such spells that are useful to a community that respects destiny and the sanctity of the dead, but meddle in the realm of necromancy, are too dangerous to allow in general use. Necromancy is allowable only in the employ of the Church of Pharasma, whose faithful are immune to corruption and the temptation to misuse it.”
Azur is sincere in his expressions, though heavy with grief and regret, and his story rings true. Maja’s probing of his aura indicates that he is not evil, but you can see a blot of darkness indicating a dark deed which weighs heavily upon his soul.
”You are most gracious, my Lady,” replies the paladin. "My people rest within Desna’s House of Travelers here in Restov. I pawned the last of my belongings save my sword and armor to offset the cost of their stay. You are welcome to come among us and see our character before you make your final pronouncement - they are good folks through and through.”
"My lord, there is nothing I should like more."
"I think we should allow them to do business, but not grant a monopoly."
"If we have a vote, my vote is with Gorum, obviously. If we as a group, or Sera as our leader, decide on Erastil, then I will support and defend the Erastilian land with all my heart. I would ask that we proclaim Gorum the official patron of our armed forces, along with the arena, and we arrange to raise a Gorumite temple-fortress along with any other temples we raise. Dueling should be kept off the streets, though, I agree."
"I think we can agree that magics intended to animate the dead, control undead, and summon undead should be banned. Kivan seems to know the most about this matter and if there is value to be found in the field of necromancy then we shouldn't cut it off entirely. I don't like the idea that only members of their church can be trusted with that knowledge. No one is immune to corruption."
Kivan's smile back at Terran could be simple humor, or it could be a challenge. Kivan left it up to Terran's mind to decide which it was.
Kivan is sort of bored just sitting around while everyone else is dancing so he decides to talk to that elf who was traveling in Varn's party. He walks over and nods to the elven woman.
"It is nice to see another elf here. Might I ask your name and who you came to be traveling with this group."
Kivan addresses his companions before he starts his small rant.
"Firstly, if someone is willing to be animated as an undead why not allow them to be? Secondly, controlling undead can be used to stop undead from attacking, so why should that be banned. Unintelligent undead can even be told to destroy themselves and they will. We can discuss this further after I have my little 'talk' with this 'Vengeful Guardian'."
Kivan's little talk with the Vengeful Guardian is not going to be nice at all.
Kivan then turns to the Vengeful Guardian rolls up his sleeves, stands tall, and puts his 'ah he%^ nah' face on.
"Hold your horses, and back that carriage right up. You mean to tell me that not only do you think that only you Pharasians can use necromancy safely, but that you are immune to misusing it? Why don't you get off your high horse and smell the roses because news flash I've used necromancy magic and I'm perfectly fine. The sheer arrogance of your church is astounding. I haven't seen anyone else with the utter gall to claim that only they 'can use necromancy without being corrupted'. I will tell you that necromancy is a school of magic just like any other and it is no more corrupting than abjuration or transmutation. Necromancy can be used for evil, but so can any other school of magic, or anything powerful for that matter. I also find it hard to believe that no worshiper of Pharasma has ever turned away from your goddess and started creating undead. In fact I'll bet that some have even turned to Urgotha the goddess of undeath, so don't claim that you are all immune and pure. You only ask for use to ban necromancy so that you can have a monopoly on it."
Kivan's anger at someone trying to deny knowledge shines through his every word.
Kivan nods at Solanus Kasay's wisdom.
"Of course, knowledge is the most valuable thing in the world. I would gladly give several lectures to be allowed to gain some of the library's knowledge."
Milo enjoys the dance with Idris. At first, he attempts to guide her, stepping awkwardly on her feet as she forces him in the opposite direction. He laughs as well, "I think it's more fun this way!" he jokes.
Milo frowns at Calt's answer. When in private with the others, he says - glancing in particular at Maja - "I hope you don't think I doubted you, but I wanted to hear his side of the story. I agree, he is the wrong choice for us."
Although the thought of skeletons and ghouls walking the land makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, Milo bites his tongue as this is clearly something Kivan feels passionately about. He is somewhat reassured by the fact that Kivan motivations seem to be based on knowledge.
Milo nods in agreement with the proposed solutions. "Whatever we agree on, I will support as well."
"If most of us have that impression I think we should turn him down. I don't believe he will agree to get into the business if he had other people running against him, Idris. Competition lowers the price of the service and lower his profit, which he certainly do not want." She raises his shoulder. "We will find other folks, and hopefully more interested in doing a good job than just earning for it."
"Well, I'll stand aside in that vote. Whatever you prefer girls" - since the men don't seem to be worried about it - "I got your back."
Pretty follows the wizard, cause with that behavior they will gain nothing, but may even make some enemies. She tries to calm down their emotions. "Don't take it personal, Father Myllaen. Our magister don't like to be challenged, so he just say things that, well... should not be said. The point is, he believes that the search for knowledge involves studying things that, sometimes, are not the nice stuff. If you think about it, it's like study religion, really. Although you follow the enlightened dogmas of some gods, you need to study the devils and demons, from hell, to know what evil is like, to know what it can do, and realize it's not a nice thing. Prohibiting such teachings may allow the curious to search even harder for such things, and of course, in a hidden way, which would not be good for anyone. Plus, the lack of study would leave the government without much capability to deal with it. Is it possible for us to get to a better understanding about it? Maybe allow some practice of the magic, inside a proper place, and with an overseer from your church maybe?"
"I think we all heard enough to make a decision in that one, right?"
Idris heads over to her friend and mentor.
"Well, Kilkynn, you know that I pushed for Gorum. They made the decision, and it's Erastil, but the Lord in Iron will be the official patron of the armed forces and there will be an arena dedicated to Him in the town we'll form, as well as a temple-fortress. That's what I got them to agree to.
"Truth is, I understand why they chose as they did. During our travels we came across an abandoned temple of Erastil, and cleansed it of a taint that had taken it over. Then a great Stag, who apparently is a Herald of Erastil, appeared to Maja -- all of us really, but primarily her -- and gave a direct blessing. So, in some ways Erastil has already given this land a blessing. "
-Posted with Wayfinder
Pretty crosses her arms before answering to Sera. "It's pretty simple. I don't trust Aldifierri. I think he sold Bara's information to the assassins."
The rogue watches Sera's anger rise, but she tries to use it in a better way. "He is just a fool, Sera. Someone taken by the madness of their duty. Let it go. Remember who the enemy is."
Sera made calming gestures saying, "Now, now, let's don't jump to conclusions. Anders said they learned what they did spying on the Levetons. We can certainly ask Aldifierri if he's mentioned anything and see if he seems evasive. At any rate, perhaps we can draw him to us without giving him such authority before we are sure about him."
The Draconic Sorceress truly looked the part for a moment as she fumed, almost literally, with fury. She looked into Pretty's dark eyes and some of her anger drained away in wonderment. By all rights, the tiefling should call for blood and Seraphina would stop at nothing to deliver it to her. But there was no rage reflected there in Pretty's eyes, only her unflappable acceptance and unwavering focus. Sera reached up with her hand and caressed Pretty's cheek affectionately, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind where she stood on the matter. "As you say, my friend. Only as you say." She then resumed glaring pointedly at anyone who dared to look too hard as Pretty said her vows.
Sera's intentions were to impress and ignite the imagination of the gentry in attendance tonight, but she found the Lord-Mayor rather impressive himself. The clinging fabric offered little insulation and she shuddered slightly with chill as the metal of his armor drew heat from her skin before becoming more comfortable. Her muscular torso was taut like a bowstring as her movements flowed from his, following his lead as they twirled and spun together.
”Your magi’s comment will suffice to describe the good ser knight. I am not sorry that he rose not to the occasion. His quarrel is not with me, and spilling blood upon this floor would ruin an evening that is becoming more pleasant by the moment. I must conceal my sources from you, but your companion’s identity has long been known to me. I do not hold her deception against her, I should do the same in her stead. We do not choose our birth,” he comments as you spin to a flourish in the song. ”Far better to judge a soul by the company they keep.”
Sera allowed herself a chuckle this time, remembering Kivan's silent protest. "He calls them as he sees them, no denying that. He is protective of the rest of us, in his way. I suppose we all are... it's a strong bond that is born on the battlefield. If his quarrel is with Pretty, he will meet a united front. Of course, I did say almost... it would certainly have been a shame to spoil the Ball before the celebration began in truth. Not to mention a poor use of this excellent dance floor." She smiled up at Ioseph, finding she had little need to 'put-on' the flirtatious demeanor. "Do you judge me well then, as you know most of my friends? I think you must have me at a disadvantage, for I have no idea who keeps you company, my Lord. Other than Jantle, that is. You seem to have a penchant for elevating status for those you find to be... what was the word you used? Worthies, I think?" Her gaze was appraising as well as appreciative as she searched his features for signs of doubt, suspicion or worry.
Seraphina nodded in agreement with Pretty, "Good, I'm glad we're agreed. Let's fill the foreman in." She motions to the Calt that they are ready to answer.
"Foreman Calt, I am sorry to inform you that we won't be entering into a contract with your Consortium at this time. While I have no doubt that no one could clear-cut as effectively and efficiently as your company, that is simply not what we intend with our lands at this time. We will, of course, remember your generous offer in the event that our needs and wishes should change." She offered him a tight smile, trying her best not to let slip how contemptible she found his offer.
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Lady Alynne shrugs at Maja. ”They know where I am. Restov’s the Free City, none would turn them from the gates. They’ve the right-of-way in this match, Sister. Doesn’t bother me much. As you know, when you walk your own path the way is lonely. I’ll expect my kin to walk through the gates about the same time the dusty old theologians show up at your church.”
Pallasar DeCierre sits upright, all business. ”Then report to the Ring of Honor tomorrow morning. At the stroke of noon you shall demonstrate before the city and the gods your worthiness to advance. May your sword not fail you. And Idris,” he says, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a slight smile, ”Pick yourself a surname. ‘of the blade’ is fine on the Initiate rolls, but something more proper must be announced before you take up any headier mantle.”
Solanus Kasay nods approvingly to your reply. ”The scribes at our Repository will be glad to take diction at your convenience.”
Foreman Calt smiles in response to Seraphina’s refusal, but it’s hollow. ”An unfortunate choice, my good Lady. You will no doubt come to see the mistake of employing other axe-swingers in your lands. Good-evening, and again, congratulations.”
Road Walker Donnaeus smiles with approval when Maja informs him of the party’s choice. ”I had no doubt that your wisdom would win out. I will inform the Elders at once. The Church has no quarrel with the Gorumites. After all, a community needs stout walls and strong defenders. Their obsession with violence – even in cases where peaceful overtures are more successful – makes that church unsuitable as a national patron. Though, such worship does hold certain barbarian tribes together. I have made the same offer to the other two groups, and await their responses as well. I have no doubt that ser Numestri will advocate on our, and his daughter’s, behalf. I believe that Varn will choose Desna, as one of his number is a cleric of same.”
Father Kilkynn raises an eyebrow to Idris. ”The Grim Stag? Even among our own we know of Erastil’s war-herald. The Old Hunter bending his bow in war is formidable indeed. Nothing the Gods do is without import – you’d best make ready for a scrap. A temple-fortress would be the strong right arm of your city. As far as the Church, they’ll obviously be disappointed. Gorum, however, cares little for orthodox worship. Our Lord in Iron is friend to all who fight, from the most studied swordsman to the urchin who makes a fist for a scrap of bread. Shrink not from the fight, and Gorum will be at your side.”
Vengeful Guardian Myllaen listens silently to Kivan’s screed, her eyes flashing fire. ”Have you been Scourged before the Spiral of the Bone Lands? Has the Lady of Graves laid your soul bare and clad you in august armor against the chill of the long night? There is but one reason to protest a ban on necromancy – you are a practitioner of those forbidden arts and have foul designs of your own. As such, you are blinded by your lust for power, and cannot see the corruption taking heart in your own soul. Beware, wizard. A rot of the flesh can be cleansed and cured – a rot of the soul can only be burned away. Pharasma knows the date upon which all creatures will take their final breath, and she will NOT be denied. We will be watching you, wizard.”
The priestess turns abruptly away to address Pretty. ”A Temple of Pharasma within your lands would be required for any research or practice of necromantic magic. To do otherwise is to court disaster.” With that, Myllaen spins on her heel and walks stiffly off.”
”Their health is good, for what they’ve been through. The good folks at Desna’s House of Travelers are not stingy with aid. ‘A refugee is the neediest traveler of all’, they said to me. I should prefer that you visit on the morrow, when all have rested, but the House is obviously open and you are welcome among us at any time. As for me, my people know of my burden. I had to…” Azur trails off, turning his head.
When the young warrior turns back, you see repressed tears. ”I… We had to do hard things, which I shall not spoil your evening with. I will tell all on the morrow when you visit.”
Pretty lifts her shoulders. "Next time try to be less god-like, Kivan the necromancer... We may have got an enemy for free..."
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The elven woman rises from her seat at Kivan’s approach. ”Blessings of the road and the road’s end, fellow traveler. I am Qu'illaelosa, of Varn’s Company. The circumstances are as simple as can be. I met Varn during my wanderings, and fell in with his followers for adventure and coin. We have been successful at all we’ve turned our hands to, cumulating with our presence here at the Ball. I suppose you could say Luck had something to do with it.” Her eyes smile through her cool demeanor, and her hand goes to the butterfly holy symbol clasped to her belt. ”And to whom might I be speaking?”
”Where do you imagine you lie in my estimation, Lady Medvyed?” counters Sellemius, not unkindly, as the song ends and the musicians trail off. Dancers enter and exit the floor, and the laughter and conversation is abruptly very loud in the absence of the music. Sellemius makes no move to disengage from you, and after a few moments the performers begin anew with a livelier piece, “Shady Grove”.
”That’ll get the blood flowing,” comments the Mayor as he picks up the rhythm. ”My associates would be good practice for your new spymaster. I shan’t take offense at the prodding around.”
Cheeks as red as a blooming rose, croons the lute. And eyes the prettiest brown. She’s the darling of my heart, Sweetest girl in town.
”You’ve the right of my…penchant. A master whom I once studied told me ‘boy, today a man trains to kill you. How will you spend this day?’ Today, I plant seeds. I have no heirs of my own, so I shall raise Jantle up in their stead. I may find my city pitted against the Houses of Brevoy, so I sponsor others of Rostland.” Sellemius meets your eyes with a smile as he turns you towards the crowd. ”And might I say, what pleasant fruit my work has borne.”
You see no trace of suspicion or worry on Sellemius’ face, but you pick up a slight hollow note on the subject of Jantle. There’s more to that story.
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The halls of the Fireblade Academy are jarringly familiar to you. As you pass through the brick and oak gates of the old school’s main entrance, the time since your departure is stripped away as surely as the noise and bustle of the street traffic is held back by the sturdy walls. It seems as if it was yesterday when you passed the other way through those gates with naught but your sword, a simple bag of clothing and personal effects, and the burning unhappiness that pushed you from these hallowed halls into the Stolen Lands.
Your return is much more noteworthy than your departure. Plenty of prospective students decide the rigor and commitment of an Academy is too much for them, or that their interests are elsewhere, or that a wrong has been done to them. Far fewer return, and certainly none return as seasoned warriors settling a question of honor. DeCierre’s arrangement of your duel demonstration has set the school abuzz, and many searching gazes mark your progress deeper into the Academy’s grounds.
The Ring of Honor occupies a prominent raised area in the courtyard around which the Academy’s building is arranged. You know not to report directly to the dueling ground itself – duelists await their match in one of two preparatory areas. The Eastern Camp has its doorway decorated with the white ribbon of an Initiate, while the Western Camp bears Brokav’s coat of arms. Your destination is obvious. An orderly greets you at the door – within the Camp are bath facilities, lockers, a grindstone, any accommodation a duelist may require. ”The Lists demand a name, Initiate. Who comes today to bring honor upon this Academy?”
As promised, you find the Society of Blade and Word open to your entrance. No gate or barbican blocks your entrance to the Repository, though the dueling blade worn prominently on the hip of nearly every individual in the library promises plenty of ability to deal with unruly intruders. The noise of street traffic fades, replaced by the comfortable quiet and stillness of a place of study. Massive shelves of tomes and scrolls line both sides of this massive hall, stretching to the ceiling far above. Ladders are required to access the upper reaches of the collection. Between the walls of research material, bare and plain tables and chairs are arranged. Some stand empty, and others are occupied by young students of the Society hard at work. An octagonal desk commanding the middle of the room and staffed by an elderly man in simple woolen garb is an obvious librarian’s station.
When you visit Desna’s House of Travelers, you find Azur Brey and his refugees in just the condition he described – tired, scared, grief-stricken, but also recently fed and well-tended to. Desna's priests have furnished each with a plain cot and straw-stuffed mattress, and a cauldron emits the appetizing odor of beef stew atop the wood fired stove which keeps the House warm. If not for their current lodgings, the people of Westwind could be found in any of the countless hamlets and villages across Golarion. Farmers, tradesmen, guards, and one holy warrior. The vast majority of them appear between the ages of fifteen and thirty – aside from a single baby squalling in its mothers’ arms in a corner, the refugees have neither the very young nor the very old among them. Azur has shed the armor he donned for the Ball the evening before and is clad only in simple garb borrowed from the clerics. The linen shirt is of suitable size, but his pants are much too large and held aloft by a rope belt. When you enter, Azur greets you at the door, his good eye flicking from face to face.
Azur clasps Seraphina’s hand and takes a knee before you. ”You honor us with your presence, my Lords and Ladies. Westwinders! Here is the salvation brought to us by the grace of Iomedae. We have weathered the storm and arrived at safe harbor – a new land, free from the demons who’ve cast us from our homes. Lady Medvyed, would you please say a few words?”
"I am Kivan member of..." Kivan realizes at this moment that they never did truly agree on a name for the group. "Well our company doesn't have a name, but I'm sure we'll think of one soon."
Kivan smiles trying to play it off as humor.
Kivan isn't actually sure if his party will ever finally decide on a name, but he doesn't want to seem incompetent.
Kivan looks up many different subjects and gives as many lectures as he thinks he can, so that he might increase his knowledge. He looks for information on
1. Cyclopean ruins and history
2. The cult of Ashardalon
3. Surgery
4. Summoning Techniques
5. Powerful Necromancer's and their fates
6. Humor
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
Kivan doesn't notice much at the House of Travelers except that there are a lot of humans there, and they seem like they need a home.
In the misty dawn before the match, Idris goes to the Bulwark of Gorum and joins in morning prayers, clanging the pommel of her sword against a wrought-iron shield made available by the temple in rhythm with the other Gorumites as she shouts at the top of her voice the words of praise and prayer to the Lord in Iron.
After the service, she seeks out Kilkynn, and after their usual greeting in the form of clashing of swords, she asks him, "Friend and mentor, today I go to demonstrate my worthiness to achieve a title above Initiate in the Fireblade academy. I believe I have the blessings of Gorum, but I ask for a different sort of boon from you. I want your name. As an orphan, I have no surname, but now ennobled, I may take one. May I call myself Gormun, in your honor?"
(Kilkynn's surname is of Kellid origin and means "Spearman". )
Upon entering the Eastern Camp, Idris stands proudly before the orderly and declares, "Idris Gormun, Noble of Rostland!"
Observing a clock, she notes that she has time for preparation. She takes a steaming hot bath to loosen her muscles, oils her skin, armor, and weapons, and runs a whetstone over the edges of her two spare blades. She doesn't expect to need them, but it's always good to be prepared.
Seraphina laughed lightly, the sound almost musical with delight. "Oh you shouldn't invite me to use my imagination, my Lord. It has a tendency to run away with me... I might expect that my father's name commends me somewhat, but perhaps not to someone who does not look to blood and birth for commendation or condemnation. Though I am my father's daughter through and through, I am always growing, ever changing. I feel my future in near constant flux as I awake to find yet another new and strange thing about myself. I'm sure my mother would have you think me a perfectly proper Lady, but then neither she nor you has seen me fight." She smiled mysteriously, giving him a look loaded with unspoken implication. "In truth, I still worry that powerful men cannot help but see their friends and allies as tools or pieces in their great games of strategy. So I can only hope that I rank a valuable enough game-piece that I will continue to be privy to my own purpose... I have faith that I have achieved that at least."
Her smile took on an impish quality as she said, "You know, I heard a rumor that you were expected to select a lady to court here tonight. It seems the goodwives of your city are ready to see you settled, my Lord. But given what you shared about your intentions toward Numesti's family, I suspect that is not the case? However, if you were of a mind to engage in a ruse of courtship, I would be agreeable. It would perhaps provide a credible reason for us to remain in close contact and minimize suspicion." She looked up at him demurely, as if worried she had been too forward, the warm candlelight reflected in the shine of her eyes.
"I will remember that you said so, Foreman Calt." Her eyes flashing with a cold, metallic gleam. She was quite sure they had just received a threat.
Sera joined Maja in speaking to Lady Alynne Nohouse. "I am unsure if you will remember me, but I believe we have met before, my Lady. My brother Olek and I came visiting once with a cousin of yours, Zak Orlovsky. Do you mean to say you have no contact with any of your relations? Zak was a... a dear comfort to me after my family's loss. But for many months now I have heard nothing of him. I hoped you might have had a word from him?"
Pretty could only imagine the hard times Azur Brey has been through, but whatever he had done, it couldn't be much more than what is needed for survival. She noticed an interesting detail that she couldn't se the day before, and wondered if he had sold his ring too, to feed for his flock. The rogue, of course, would not judge this man, but everything seemed to indicate he was honest and worthy. By now she was sure these folks would be the base of their kingdom, and thus would want to know each of them, for future interactions. After Sera's speech she proceeds to have a conversation with some, speaking about what they've done and wishing to know some about them too.
Pretty wants to watch and cheer for Idris' trial, if she is allowed to.
Seeing the refugees huddled here in the inn was sadder than hearing Azur tell their story. Yet Milo is glad that they are able to offer them a place to make a new home. "Maja, I bet it's because they're from the town of Westwind," he jokes, making a lame attempt to lighten the mood.
After Sera speaks to the group, Milo goes about to meet the refugees, ask about their homeland, and talk about the Stolen Lands. In particular, he seeks out some of the farmers, inquiring as to what sorts of crops they grew and discussing what types of foods grow well in this climate.
"Good luck, Idris! Not like you need it!" Milo says as Idris leaves to prepare for her trial.
Seraphina smiles in warm greeting and pats the back of the paladin's hand and then lifts the fellow back to his feet, not sparing him her strength. "Of course, but on your feet, Ser Brey. We do not care to see our friends upon their knees."
"Good people of Westwind, please be at ease. My name is Seraphina of House Medvyed, and once I was in a state much like you find yourselves now. Displaced from the home of my heart with the remnants of my broken family huddled around me in the throes of our fresh grief. Unable to even imagine a day when the aching hollow in my heart might be filled with hope or joy or peace ever again. But I had loved ones still, and we clung to each other for comfort and support. Little by the little, the quality of the pain faded, first losing it's keen edge and then one day an hour goes by that you feel it not... soon it only visits rather than dwelling in your breast. But never will it be so far away that you forget those precious ones for whom you weep so bitterly now. Hold them in your hearts and picture them in happier times to kindle your spirits in these dark days still to come. Would that we had warm homes waiting for you, but alas, our lands are still rough and raw. There will be long travel and much work to do when we arrive, but we have the resources and we will be with you every step along the way. I promise you, we need friends now who are willing to embrace this opportunity to build a community with us as much as you need a place to call your own. So come now, let us speak and become acquainted. Share your burdens, if you will, and take comfort in our new fellowship. Or tell us of your hopes for our new home and we will imagine a brighter future together." She went on to introduce her companions and fellow leaders to the Westwinders, complete with new names and titles and then moved among her new people, clasping their hands and listening to their stories of woe and pain, offering what comfort she could. She wrote in her journal, noting names and livelihoods and making a list of yet more things to acquire before leaving Restov. First on her list, a covered wagon and a crib to make the travel as comfortable for the mother and her infant as possible.
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”You have,” Sellemius says plainly and soberly. ”My purpose for you is the same as mine own; a free Rostland and the preservation of the Aldori legacy. Clearly state your purpose to yourself and hold it dear! I have spent lives in this pursuit, and likely will spend many more. My only consolation is that I may very well spend my own life as well; you have heard of ‘the king’s gambit’.”
A kiss from pretty Shady Grove is as sweet as brandy wine, there ain’t no girl in this old world that’s prettier than mine
The Lord-Mayor’s humor returns with your proposition. ”Ah, the clucking of hens. You are, of course, perceptive and correct. I should not be in position to support Terrion’s kin with a lady of my own. A ruse?” Sellemius chuckles. ”Would this be the action of your mother’s ‘perfectly proper Lady?’ Close contact there could be, but I think you’ll not escape suspicion no matter how you spin your moves. Even two dances in a row will set the watchers’ tongues a-wagging!” Despite his flippancy, there is a hunger in Sellemius’ eyes.
Alynne Nohouse thinks for a moment, then nods to Seraphina. ”Aye, I think I recall your visit. That’d be about the time Zak broke his arm falling from his horse. Damn fool wouldn’t take to light work and got right back to riding with the arm in a sling. I may be a simpleton, but I remember your hair. Not many Medvyeds with copper locks, mostly golden brown. That’ll be damn near seven years past, won’t it? Right before I struck out on my own. No, I’ve no word from Zak. If he’s send any parchment my way it’s surely been intercepted by my family and kept back.”
The cleric of Desna laughs, a polite and melodic sound nearly swallowed by the din of the ball around you. ”Only children and ships need be named at their start,” the elf notes. ”When a suitable title arises you’ll know it to be right. How fared your travels? With the Lady of Roads watching over us we found no major opposition to our explorations. I pray the same fortune favors you as well.”
The scribes of the Repository take excellent dictation, putting your words to paper with a swiftness that only rarely forces you to pause and wait for them to catch up. Your lectures on arcane techniques and your dissertation about the influence plate tectonics has on ley lines are particularly well received. Your commentary on the untapped potential for study that minor deities represent also causes quite some debate. However, your lecture on the nature of the River Styx doesn’t rise to the level of discussion present in these halls, and your treatise on proper foundation design has no information that the Repository did not already contain.
Kilkynn looks surprised at Idris’ request, but quickly throws you a grin and a punch on the shoulder. ”Yeah, I like it. Don’t do anything stupid like running from a fight, would you? Go kick the poor bastard’s teeth in.”
Those who accompany Idris to the Ring of Honor are able to stroll through the gates without challenge. It seems security is not a high priority at the Academies. After all, who’s going to start trouble surrounded by dozens of highly skilled swordsmen? You are, however, intercepted by the orderly. ”Then make ready, Idris Gormun,” he states, allowing Idris past to the preparatory area. ”The Camps are for contestants only. The rest of you may wait in the spectator area by the Ring.”
By the time the bells of the chapel of Abadar chime to mark the midday hour, a decent crowd has gathered, jockeying for favorable viewing position in the standing-room only spectator area. The orderly busies himself in preparation of the ring: A thorough and vigorous sweeping with a coarse straw broom is followed by the careful application of a fine coating of sand from buckets set nearby for just this purpose. With a practiced hand, the orderly stalks around the perimeter of the dueling ring and grooms the sand with a wooden rake until it is perfectly even. Preparations made complete, the orderly opens the doors to both of the Camps, allowing Idris and Brokav to both take positions at their respective sides of the ring.
Count Brokav, Master of Initiates, cuts an imposing figure in his finely-tailored doublet and trousers of white velvet and leather jerkin. His hair, jet-black with the first streaks of grey, is pulled back in a tight ponytail. Through narrowed eyes, Brokav gazes upon Idris, a cocky smile teasing about his taut lips. Brokav stands in a relaxed pose, arms crossed in front of his chest. Any who have trained in the Fireblade Academy know that this flat-footed stance is but a ruse – Brokav never tires of demonstrating the speed of his draw from this position to unruly Initiates whom he judges worthy of a lesson. More than once, Idris has felt the sting of the flat of Brokav’s blade slapping bared skin from just such a draw.
”So, the Gorumite stripling returns, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed,” comments Brokav, each word characteristically pronounced with slow crispness. ”And eager for yet another demonstration – in public – of her failures as a student. I trust your time in the wilderness has proven quite beneficial to your swordplay. No doubt, the fighting of wild beasts in the forest has prepared you for the subtleties of Aldori fencing. Perhaps the long miles on horseback have hardened your buttocks for the whipping you’re due? Hmm?”
”The Trial by Combat will now begin!” yells the orderly. ”Idris Gormun, Initiate of the Fireblade Academy, seeks to prove by the Ring of Honor her worthiness to advance in rank to Sword-Peer. Defending the ranks of the Fireblade Graduates is Count Tokari Brokav, Master of Initiates. Master of Initiates! Do you understand the sacred duty before you today, to guard the ranks of the Peerage against those of insufficient skill?”
”Yes, yes, of course” comes Brokav’s disinterested reply.
”Challenger! Do you understand that success in the Ring of Honor completes your Initiate Training, with all the rights and duties due your station as Sword-Peer? Do you understand that failure in the Ring of Honor commits you to a full year of study within the Academy before standing for this test again? Then choose, Initiate: Blunted swords in a match fought for points, or sharpened swords in a match to first blood?”
Azur accepts Seraphina’s hand up. Demonstration of fealty complete, the paladin stands quietly aside and listens to what you have to say.
Seraphina’s speech is well-received by the refugees. Your comments on grief fading but not dying with time bring nods from some of the more elderly and worldly of the group. ”’Ardship’s no stranger to us, M’lady,” comments a lean yet muscular young man with the burn-scarred forearms and ruddy cheeks of a blacksmith. ”Alls we’re wanting for’s a place to put down roots an’ start over.” ”Somewhere fresh, far from the demons from hell and the memories of our old lives,” agrees a woman with her hair in a tight bun, her bandaged arm peeking out from under a loaned shawl. ”I allus wanted me own farm,” chimes in a younger lad, barely into manhood. ”Not how I’d ‘ave chosen et but we owe you just the same.”
As you speak with the refugees, you get the picture that they are from a land not unlike the River Kingdoms in climate – wet with hot summers and cold winters. The primary profession of the group is farming, with a roughly even three-way split between vegetables, cereals, and livestock.
As Seraphina and the rest chat with their first subjects, Azur takes Maja aside.
”I promised you I would tell my woes,” he says. ”Let us go for a stroll.”
Azur leads you outside Desna’s House at a slow walking pace, recounting the tale which brought the Westwinders to Restov.
”It is as I told in brief at the Ball, Sister of Erastil. The demonic incursion of the Worldwound caught us unprepared. How could we be prepared, with a portal to the very Abyss spewing forth rivers of the foulest beasts? The Crusader army was too confident: They counseled us to remain at our village, to keep planting and harvesting the crops that would be needed to sustain the fighting forces. Kenabres, the city nearest our poor village, was heavily fortified. It had a solid curtain wall remaining from the Barbarian Wars, and some twelve thousand fighting men of the Crusades had swelled the ranks of its guards. We first learned of the city’s destruction when we saw the smoke rising against the setting sun. We made some preparations, but what could we do? By the time a rider was sent to scout and returned, we had a scant half-day before the demonic host swept over us. My brothers and sisters of the faith held vigil in the Chapel while the townsfolk gathered what goods they could and fled. Our Chapel-Master was a good man. Our pitiful barricades of carts and lumber could not hope to hold back the host, so he alone remained in town, chanting prayers and working shields of magic around the Chapel. It took the demons nearly two hours to destroy him, and we used that time as best we could.”
Azur sighs and looks troubled, his eyes glazing over in recollection. ”My brothers and sisters and I resolved to fight a rearguard action. Those fit of body fled with good speed, but the elderly could not keep up. With every passing moment, the demonic host grew closer and the strength of our elders faded. We did not know what to do. Our elders told us to flee, to save as many Westwinders as we could. I was not willing to leave them behind to suffer the horrors of the Abyss. To be rent and torn asunder by the claws of hell-spawn is not a fate I’d wish upon a good man, let alone the abuses of the soul. I could not condemn my people to an eternity of torment in the stinking pits of the Abyss. We therefore did what we could, and gave our elders a swift and painless death.”
Azur is silent for a long while. ”A moment of pain, a quick fading, then Elysium. A far better fate than what the demon hordes offered. We saved a score of lives from the eternal damnation and torment. I hate what I did, but I do not regret my choice. I would do it again.”
Azur is silent for another period. ”Iomedae did not see it that way,” he says, sadly. The paladin fingers his holy symbol. ”Since that time, my prayers have gone unanswered. I felt her presence withdraw from me. It may be a falsehood to call myself Paladin, anymore. I still follow my Code, but there is an emptiness inside me that I fear will never fill. When I needed it the most, my healing powers were denied. In the days that followed, we fought a desperate rear guard action. We traded lives for ground, blood for time. I alone remain – my brothers and sisters died around me or in my arms. I did not escape harm, either. Sore wounded, I barely made it to the line of battle the Crusaders set up after their defeat at Kenabres. By pure chance, I overheard an Aldori sell-sword mention Restov, the Free City. I figured I was handy enough with a blade to earn a decent enough wage to re-settle my people. We would make our way to these lands, beg charity from a local lord, and begin again. The road to Restov was hard, and many perished from predatory animals, predatory humans, grief, or simple exposure. Out of nearly two hundred souls, just us thirty-five remain. It seems a gift from the gods that we arrived just when new lands are being settled, and by those free from prejudice against the victims of demonic attacks, to boot. Which gods that is,” he says, grief and bitterness in his voice, ”I do not know; my own does not answer. You now know, Sister of Erastil, of the burden I bear.”
"So, the Gorumite stripling returns, all bright-eyed and bushy tailed," comments Brokav, each word characteristically pronounced with slow crispness. "And eager for yet another demonstration – in public – of her failures as a student. I trust your time in the wilderness has proven quite beneficial to your swordplay. No doubt, the fighting of wild beasts in the forest has prepared you for the subtleties of Aldori fencing. Perhaps the long miles on horseback have hardened your buttocks for the whipping you’re due? Hmm?"
Idris simply smiles at Brokav, not betraying her inner, seething anger.
"Challenger! Do you understand that success in the Ring of Honor completes your Initiate Training, with all the rights and duties due your station as Sword-Peer? Do you understand that failure in the Ring of Honor commits you to a full year of study within the Academy before standing for this test again? Then choose, Initiate: Blunted swords in a match fought for points, or sharpened swords in a match to first blood?"
If I could just get my sword past his guard, a precise strike, he'd never know what hit him... but it wouldn't kill him. What a chance though! I'll never know if I don't take it, and while it would be galling to fail, it won't matter to my friends, and it won't matter to Bara.
"I do so understand. I choose: first blood!" Idris, in her fashion as a Gorumite, throws caution to the wind.
Pretty got suddenly concerned about Idris' choice. She was sure the woman could win in a long term match, and probably even in a first blood one, but the last option would leave her vulnerable to luck, which you can never and well, it would be very sad if she lost this for being irresponsible. Anyway, she screamed loud enough for everyone to hear. "Kick his ass Idris!"
Kivan shakes his head.
"We had to deal with the local bandits. A man calling himself the Stag Lord was apparently trying to take over after having been abused by his father as a child. I was happy when I first saw him dead, but after learning about that I just felt sad."
Kivan attempts to learn about Cyclopean ruins and history in the small mountain range between the Stolen Lands and the grass plains to the east. Kivan attempts to learn about the cult of Ashardalon beliefs and rituals along with any identifying symbols they use. Kivan attempts to learn about heart surgery using his book as a reference. Kivan won't learn many summoning techniques. Kivan wants to know more about powerful Necromancer's and their fates especially any related to the Church of Pharasma. Kivan attempts to learn about human humor if he can.
Kivan watches the fight with interest.
Milo is pleased to see that they are well-received by the Westwinders. It was good to see that the people were interested in helping them settle the Stolen Lands, and that they liked Seraphina.
Talking with the young man who wants to start his own farm, Milo learns his name is Derryl. He avoids talk of Westwind, his family, or the journey to Brevoy. Derryl's mood brightens as they talk about the future, what sort of farm he might have, and the logistics of running said farm. Milo shares stories of his time working on his neighbor's farm when he was younger. The woman with the broken arm, named Beckee, is eager to hear Milo talk about the Stolen Lands, what they are like, and any dangers they might hold.
Milo watches the proceedings, interested not in the swordplay, but in Idris's success. He joins in Pretty's shout. "You've got this, Idris!"
Pretty finds a man who could also pass out as a boy, were not for the determination in his eyes, scars and experience acquired on their sad journey. His name is Linark, and he's 19 years old. Pretty sought him because she saw something in his eyes that could not easily be described. Later when she tried to put into words, what came out was an admixture of trauma for the passed events, desperation for his lack of ability, determination absorbed from the hero that saved them, but mostly confusion, which all together made a dangerous scenario that could lead someone into madness. She saw a little bit of herself in this boy, and as she was once helped by someone else, there was a sentiment of retribution, and maybe, just maybe, she could help him to became a better person in the future, overcoming his traumas, something that she actually never did.
Linark Abaddon was also a farmer boy, one of many others that grew up close to Kenabres. He is strong and helped a lot in their family business, and the affection he had for his family made him unsuitable to move away and become a fighter or paladin trained in the city. The times were kinda peaceful, an the service was not mandatory, so there were people better suited to do it, and he had never regretted that decision, until the day Kenabres fell to the devil hordes. Then he regretted it deeply. Although he was strong and knew how to use farming tools, none of them were good enough to actually protect someone, and in the few occasions he needed to help in the fight there wasn't much he could do, as he was more frightened than skilled. That drove him into a depressive state, and when one after another member of their group died, including his family, he realized that one day he would make them pay. He would help retake the destroyed city, whatever it takes.
And he would do that by first following the example he was given by Azur Brey. Linark had the paladin in a high esteem, since he basically saved all of them. The boy saw the best and the worst of the world, and all the slaughter they witnessed made him kinda... well.. disturbed. He understood who the enemy was, but sadly he also saw that, to be strong, you need to commit yourself to the greater cause, and do that always. He will forever remember something that most people would want to forget: Azur Brey killed their elders to save them from a worst fate. You had to be strong and devoted to do something harsh as that. The paladin was saving them, although not in a regular way. Even he understood that, so why wouldn't the paladin's god? Linark realized Iomedae disapproved Azur's action and took away his powers when they needed them the most, and thought the god was a real b#%~$ for doing it. When he becomes a paladin, he would choose someone more flexible to worship, cause seriously, war was harsh, and the greater good was more important than a life or two, or so he thought. He wanted to start to train with real weapons as soon as he could, and then join a church where he could become a paladin, but of course not in the service of Iomedae. If at least those things were easier...
Seraphina's composure slipped as she processed what Ioseph was saying and true concern painted her features. She had always paid close attention when her father had instructed her brothers, especially when her mother had told her it was not her place to intrude. The evening games with the hand-carved pieces on the checkered board were not so interesting as their sparring matches, but her brother, Kristof, had been determined to master the game and best their father at it and she had often quietly cheered him on, learning much of the jargon in her observation. "The King's Gambit? You mean to make yourself vulnerable... entice your enemy to move against you, thus weakening his own position. But does it not require that your opponent underestimates you and takes the bait with no anticipation of the trap to succeed? If the white king is truly sacrificed, the game is lost!" Her pulse and breath had indeed quickened, but not because of the increased pace. Her tone was plaintive, almost accusatory as she gazed at him imploringly, working to swallow back her emotions and correct her expression back to something more frivolous and jubilant.
"Do not be too dismissive of women and their clucking, my Lord. Your name is upon their lips because they care for you and wish to see you happy before Pharasma takes you to her breast. It is not hard to see why... They would be distressed to know you plot to deny yourself all but posthumous glory and honor." She kept her eyes downcast as she said this, only affording him a petulant glance as she sighed. "I am perfectly proper in at least one respect. My future husband, should I ever take one, will not have need to worry over trespassers. As I have never met a Lord who could say the same of his future wife, I am satisfied with my propriety. My mother knows better than most that I am 'bold as brass' as she says. Perhaps life has simply bestowed upon me the understanding that the things we leave unsaid, undone, will be counted highest among our regrets when the opportunity has passed away forever. It had crossed my mind that the attention of the most skilled swordsman of our era might make lesser men pause before pressing their luck as would-be suitors... after all, the fewer I must reject, the fewer I can count among my potential enemies. But then again, maybe I am merely trying to think of excuses to return to your side now that I must be gone from it so soon. Motives can be tricky to untangle, you see? Funnily enough, I was anxious to be on my way when you declared we must stay here a week but at the moment, I find myself reluctant to leave the Free City behind."
Sera was distressed that she could find no news of her friend, but tried to play it off cordially. "Yes, I know well how much I stand out. The first time I met Zak he teased me over it. Well, we can both say we knew each other when, eh? I'm glad to see your chosen path suits you so well. Please, remember me to Zak if you should hear from him."
"And a fresh start you shall have. Show me what you have managed to bring with you and I will make notes on what else we must acquire. Tell me, do any of you possess a specialized skill? How about making clothes or tanning hides? If you've a mind to try your hand at a particular craft or trade, now would be a good time to branch out."
Seraphina cheered on her friend to victory, "Alright, Idris! Knock that smug look off his face!"
Kivan sits there silently taking in sight of Idris and the Master of Initiates. He wonders about the skill of the man to not worry about this fight. Was it simple human arrogance, or was it something else? Kivan watched closely as the match began.
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Count Brokav smirks at Idris’ choice. ”Wise. I would undoubtedly destroy you in points, but luck may intervene for you here.”
”So noted: The Initiate has chosen combat to first blood. Combatants! Bring honor to the Fireblade Academy and the Aldori Tradition with your deeds! BEGIN!” The orderly brings his hands down in a sweeping motion, and steps out of the ring. Brokav twirls his sword with a deft flourish and starts to advance upon Idris.
Idris, totally focused on the moment, has no eyes for anything but her target in front of her. The rest of you, however, catch some alarming details...
Three rough-looking men are sidling up behind Idris casually. They're dressed like any of the countless poor Aldori students who can't afford fancy garb, and wear Aldori swords, but their body language is too stiff to be here to casually watch the bout and they're getting fairly close to the ring.
In addition, other nondescript figures are edging into the Ring of Honor area through another gap in the spectator seats . A trio of spectators on benches adjacent to yours are also too interested in your group for comfort.
You recognize two of the faces among one of the groups - they're the Assassins who escaped justice after ambushing you in the alley!
Idris starts by moving forward, drawing her sword, and readying her stance. It looks like she's charging at first, but the cagey swordswoman stops about 10 feet away from the Master of Initiates, and raises her sword in a defensive position.
Seraphina was intent on the match, but the men edging up behind Idris made her pause, wondering what they were about. "Why are those fellows getting so close to the ring? Isn't that against the rules?" She said aloud to no one in particular, her eyes still tracking them.
The things were getting weird in here. At first it seemed Brokav has some folks working on something in the background, but then when she was about to move Maja called out that there were assassin's in there once again. Confused as to who exactly would be the assassins she moved in front of the party, to protect the casters for now, until some of their enemies took more drastic action.
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Brokav drops into a combat stance as soon as the orderly yells. He stands in a classic fencing position, sword extended towards Idris in a balanced posture ready to lunge or leap backwards. The Master of Initiates does not rise to Idris' bait, and instead waits for her to close the distance.
Maja's shout rings out over the talking of the crowd, alerting you to danger. Brokav squints, and looks past Idris for a bare moment.
A mass of cloaked men mob the Ring of Honor. Abandoning all pretense of subtlety, they rush forward while drawing their dueling swords in an obvious rush to surround and isolate Idris. Bringing up the rear from the south is a large man with a familiar face - the burly dock worker from the alleyway ambush! It appears the assassins did not flee back to Daggermark, but instead have chosen to have another go at you.
Three spectators who had been loitering on the bench nearest your group stand up abruptly, advancing on your seating area with clear malice. "Now now, noblefolk, dont'cha know you cain't interrupt a duel, yeah?" asks one with a grin. They're wearing short swords but haven't drawn them.
"What... what the hell is this, Brokav? Are these your men? No... they're the assassins!" She raises her voice.
Idris backs towards a wall of the arena, putting her back to it to keep herself from being surrounded.
As the three spectators come closer Kivan just smiles at them.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Kivan then chants a few words and creates a cloud of glitter over the three of them trying to blind them.
As soon as she becomes aware of the danger, Seraphina casts her mirror image spell.
Then all six Seras turn to the orderly and cry in stereo, "Foul! Interference! Stop the duel!"
Glad that he brought Nix to watch the duel, Milo jumps to his feet as the strangers harass them. "It would be a shame if the duel was interrupted, " he says, agreeing with Kivan. He lays a hand on Nix's flank, whispering something. She growls as she advances to stand between the party and the ruffians, her hackles raised.
-Posted with Wayfinder
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The Ring of Honor dissolves into chaos as your assailants mob the field. It becomes difficult to hear over the yelling and shouting, and blades are drawn left and right. The orderly attempts to step forward and yell something official, but a punch thrown from the crowd strikes the side of his head and knocks him down. The crowd seems evenly divided between those trying to rush the ring, preventing anybody from rushing the ring, and standing around in confusion.
"This is not my doing!" says Brokav, turning to face the onrushing attackers. He shifts his stance to defend against the newcomers, apparently assuming the duel to be over. In so doing he turns his flank towards you...
Kivan's Glitterdust blows outward from his hands, striking and coating the offending thugs in front of him. All three abruptly become much less menacing as they yell and claw at their eyes. Some of the cone's effect pushes past them, enveloping the stand behind them in the same dizzying mote cloud. This does wonders for the general atmosphere.