<< // // // >>
With everyone eventually in agreement, a contract is drawn up and examined to both parties' satisfaction.
Then comes the painful task of each person drawing enough of their own blood to write it out and sign it. Sibylle offers to go first as a sign of good faith. One of her nails extends into a razor sharp claw which she uses to slit open the back of her hand. She drips the blood into a wooden bowl and then uses her claw as a quill. She signs the contract with a flourish, holding it up in the firelight for the crusaders to see.
After everyone is finished she gives her contract to the group, and takes theirs. "Now it's time for you to meet my subjects," Sibylle says smiling. She shouts out, "Come here my pretties!" into the fen. The dark shapes that had been hovering at the edge of vision come closer. It is those gifted with darkvision that see them first. Huge crocodiles, easily thirty feet long, with spiny ridges along their backs and tails shuffle forward slowly. They are clearly dead, their scales are sloughing off in places. They all exhibit missing pieces or bloodless wounds that are partially rotted. Zombies. A half dozen of the great undead reptiles crawl forward through the muck. Striding behind them is a creature resembling a treant, but instead of the kindly, gentle face of the tree-folk its face is twisted into a grim scowl. Its deep-set eyes and jagged mouth give it an almost skull-like grimace and its four twisted arms are tipped in sharp woody claws. Its leaves are deep green, almost black, and have ghostly white markings on them.
As if the wicked tree and its herd of undead crocodilians weren't enough, a handful more creatures that look like man-sized rotting tree trunks with several thorny tendrils sprouting from their bodies shuffle through the swamp. The stump-things exude a pungent odor of rotting plant matter and meat.
The swamp creatures form a ring around the group and then the treant thing approaches Sibylle. It sets its roots down near her and says, "Máistreás," in a deep grinding crackle of a voice.
"This is Gnarl," she says motioning to the tree creature. "He's the only one that might talk to you, but he's rather dense and refuses to speak anything but sylvan. You'll have to forgive his manners." She looks around, and then clasps her hands in front of her chest and sighs. She smiles again and says, "Look, I'm sorry, but it's been ages since I've hosted guests. I'm sure I'm not doing very well, is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable for the night?"
Eventually the exhausted crusaders fall asleep, their new allies watching over them.
======================================================================
<< // // // >>
The night was remarkably restful. For once it seems the insects found other people to pester, and not once did one of the group have to get up to take watch or investigate an abnormal noise. Sibylle was able to provide thick beds of moss that were nearly as comfortable as the feather mattresses that await them back in Kenabres. The group awake to the sound of birdsong. The trees around the camp are full of various deformed and fiendish looking small birds with whom Sibylle is conversing. Each one hops down to perch on her hand, where she trills and tweets at it for a moment before it chirps an acknowledgement and flaps away into the swamp. Once she sees the group stirring she says, "Oh, good morning! Would you like some tea? Mushroom omelette?"
There is a thin slate cooking stone next to the fire, and a large steaming clay pot nestled in the edge of the ashes. Several reptilian looking eggs rest in a small impromptu nest of soft grass next to the cooking stone. There is also a pile of multicolored fungus in many shapes and forms. Long stemmed yellow ones with little caps, thick fat rich brown ones with barely any stalk, purplish blue shelf fungus and vibrant red mushrooms with chalice shaped caps rest in the grass.
The undead and plant guardians haven't moved an inch since the crusader's fell asleep.
======================================================================
<< // // // >>
Sibylle and her minions escort the group out of the swamp as promised. While Gnarl and the undead crocs remain constant guardians, the rotting stump men are replaced at times with nucklavee or little men in red caps. Sometimes there are no seen guardians but the crusaders get the feeling they are there nonetheless. The swamp proves to be more extensive than they might have originally thought, and it takes them several hours to get clear of it, even with expert guidance. Sibylle makes pleasant smalltalk with anyone who wants to. If no one converses with her, she loves to talk about animals, plants and the natural world. She's a fount of information about the swamp and it's lifeforms. While she doesn't come off as pure evil like a demon, she's certainly not good either. Her general attitude seems to be indifference towards suffering and death, they are just tools to use in her quest.
Finally the swamp peters out and gives way to the plains that the crusaders had spent so many days in. Kenabres lies ten more miles to the south east. Sibylle stops at the edge of the swamp. "This is where we part ways for now. Good luck, please, keep in contact. You can reach me through any of the swamp animals or by sending."
Viorel keeps silent speaking no more than needed, altough that is just to focus on listening and observing, taking great care to make notes to map out the route to the best of his abilities. When they finally reach the edge he has a small smile on his face. The mage nods to Sibylle before turning towards the others. "Let's get moving, my throath aches for something that would knock a dwarf on their arse." While that was true he mostly just wanted to be somewhere he could be at ease.
Good idea. A good mug of warm mead will be wonderful after this seemingly endless journey.
Crissor grins once they exit the swamp and adds. "Ever heard of Dragon Punch Whiskey? That's always good."
During the travel, she pays close attention to the nymph, in a way trying to find the spark that could speak of possible redemption one day. "You have a strong community here, and it is clear that you deeply care about it. In a way, I too was raised and educated of similar teachings. How would you define your bond with them? Would you say you are more their queen, or their guide?"
"Oh, darling, I'm definitely their queen. They follow my commands, and if any of them displease me, they die. Pretty typical monarch behavior, no?"
As the troupe makes it out of the swamp, she pushes back a onrush of tears: "Sybille, I stand here surprise to have found an ally in such an unlikely place. May we find the means to reach beyond our differences, once our deal is dealt with, and build a stronger community that will profit all." she adds as she bows to the nymph.
"I hope that you have continued use to me as well," Sibylle says, smiling. "May the rest of your journey be swift and safe."
The journey out from the swamp is one that finds Liette withdrawn and quiet. Riding with Abigail, she flits in and out of attention to the conversation the older woman has with the Nymph queen. Liette's concern is more in that of her dying brother-in-arms and fellow Iomedean, Sigmund.
The nights are spent watering the cleric's brow, praying for reprieve, and attempting to keep him hydrated in his fugue state. Knowing full well that his life hangs in a precarious balance, especially in these dangerous environs, Liette finds his well-being her responsibility. It is, ultimately, distracting her from her job as the group's lookout and tactician as those responsibilities are shirked for that of a glorified nurse.
By the time the group is departing for Kenebraes, Liette looks like a wrung out towel. Her eyes are deep set and surrounded by dark circles, pale hair is matted down and greasy to her scalp and her skin is glossy with a sheen of sweat. It is not a relapse of the sickness that, admittedly, she still hasn't fully recovered from. Rather, it is psychological fatigue finally expressing itself physically.
Kenebraes couldn't come any sooner.
<< // // // >>
The group's journey across the plains is quick and refreshing after the oppressive heat of the desert and dankness of the swamp. The flat broad terrain makes for easy going for Viorel's horse and Dusari. Several hours of plowing through shoulder length grass under the multicolored, cloud-studded sky brings them within sight of the heavily fortified crossing over the West Sellen, and Kenabres itself shining atop the cliffs on the other side.
The group show their crusader contracts, and after being examined for signs of demonic infiltration, are allowed a quick and painless crossing.
After the urgent things like getting Sigmund to medical care and putting his horse at the stables are done, the mage makes his way towards the Watchful blade. Quick prestidigitation later to make himself a bit more presentable he enters the establishment. Viorel makes straight way towards the barkeep. "Something that will knock me to next week and keep them coming." After downing the first drink he turns around now taking a look around the place to see if there are needed faces present and if his companions followed suite.
Crissor looks to Liette and Abigail. "Shall we turn in all these trophies we've gathered from the...things out there, and get that mace into safe hands?" the paladin exhaustedly asks trying to get all the business out of the way before visiting the shops and bar.
Yes. I will sleep better when this mace is secured.
And I must send a message to my people. I need a new mount. Maybe they can send me a rider with something that can reach these drakes, if we face them again.
_____________
Tiknesr Th’th’th’th’slifp has grown rather fond of The Watchful Blade's mutton over the last two weeks while he’s been back in Kenabres, nursing his wounds from his first brief foray as a crusader. While waiting for the barkeep's attention, he eyes (and sniffs) the surrounding tables. For the first time since he’s been back in Kenabres, he finds a group of crusaders who pique his interest.
"My usual, rare and juicy, plus a bottle of Taldan whiskey," he says to the barkeep. He pours himself a glass and then swirls the whiskey around in his mouth a bit, relishing the taste. Then he strolls over to introduce himself.
An ancient-looking humanoid rat approachs the party at their heavy oaken table table. He might be a hair over four feet tall if he stood up straight, and has a long white beard, bushy white eyebrows, flaky grey-brown skin, reddish eyes, and is dressed in midnight blue robes so dark they are almost black. As he approaches you note that he walks with a spryness that belies his venerable appearance.
”I couldn’t help overhearing that colorful tale,” he says. ”Do you mind if I pull up a stool?” He offers the Taldan whiskey, pouring a glass for anyone interested.
Sitting down he scratches behind his left ear and continues. ”I'm Tiknesr Th'th'th'th'slifp. I hail from Cassomir but I’ve been up in this...rather cheery land for the last few months, defending the realm and all that.”
There’s a flicker of movement under Tiknesr’s robe and then inside his sleeve, as if there’s something scurrying inside of it. Tiknesr’s tail twitches slightly as he continues. ”Until recently I was the Grand Elder of the Th’th’th’th’slifp Coven, itself the oldest coven in Cassomir, technically in Cassomir’s ratfolk subcity and connecting a bit into Corgunbier-- I don’t know if you’ve heard of-- no, eh? It’s actually quite large….but I digress. After many years in my coven I found it was...time to spread my wings and so decided to come to Kenabres and throw my hat into the crusades, as it were. Unfortunately the first party I cast my lot with didn't work out quite as I'd hoped. I saw that you all don't seem to be biased against the...scruffier humanoids," he says, nodding toward the gnoll and tittering a bit at his own joke, "so I thought I'd introduce myself and see if we might find our goals aligned, assuming you plan to head back out there.”
The bottle of whiskey passed to the rat, the barkeep sets the task of his customer's mutton aside. Treading his way through the crowds of tables, chairs and people, he makes his way towards a man in hooded leather travelling clothes, a short grey-white goatee protruding from his hidden face. He takes another sip from a deep flagon in front of him. The bartender bends over and whispers a few words into the man's ear, tilting his head towards the party. The man stiffens, looks into the bartender's eyes for a moment then passes two gold coins from his pocket into his waiting hand. Standing, he makes his slow way towards the group.
Standing tall a compass point away from the rat, he waits politely for Tiknesr to finish his speech, and for Abigail and the rest to respond. When a gap arrives, he fills it, pulling his hood back to reveal, of all things, Nathaniel's face, but different; aged and wrinkled, more severe, a human's rounded ears, a short goatee and military crop once black but now nearly at the end of its greying. His brown eyes are drawn and intense, flickering between the group but mostly Kenan and Viorel. He speaks curtly and formally, a Brevic accent adding angles and arches to his words. A note of desperation occasionally breaks through, but his words remain firm.
"Hail; My name is Thaddeus, of the family Trelane. I seek Nathaniel, my bastard and heir; he may be known to you as Madson. I am told he travels with your group..." He looks again between Kenan and Viorel, frowning for a moment. "Is he still among your number?"
Before the two aprouch their table the mage adresses the group. "We need to talk tactics as it is now won't do..."interrupted by the arrival, Viorel listenes carefully to the ratfolk in silent estimating expression. After the man is finished he speaks up. "Viorel Ariaza, well met. I would like to think none of us are of so feeblemind as to judge someone by their mere appearance."
As the human shows his face he is visibly surprised then looking perplexed as if trying to solve some sort of puzzle. The stranger reveals the cause however before that happens. Varisian's face grows dark as he takes a deep breath. "He did, sadly Nathaniel perished some days ago fighting sand drakes. We made funeral pyre on the battleground."
The tavern was an unfamiliar one, none of the young crusaders in it were recognizable to the lone woman striding inside. They were fresh faces, their padded garb to be worn under plate and chain not even tattered on the seams yet. They laughed, drank and cheered joining in songs and revelry befitting of those who had not yet experienced the horrors of the Worldwound firsthand. Less than a year ago, Liette d'Argent counted herself among them.
Now, her once pristine white leather duster worn and tattered, her red scarf frayed on one end and singed from flames, a scar on her face from brow to throat from an acid burn, she does not look like the woman that left. Only her snow white hair remains the same, marred slightly at her right temple where the hair has been burned away in a notch from the same acid burn that created her scar.
Liette's spurs jingle as she walks in, square-toe boots thump hard on the wood floor. The badges and medals now hanging off of the right breast of her jacket cause some of the young men who see her entering to stand and salute, but the gunslinger doesn't look them in the eye. Instead, she sits down at the bar, back hunched and shoulders sloped, arms folded on the bartop and head hung.
This is how she copes; with a dusty bottle of Galtan wine at her side and a loaded gun on her hip.
The skies of Kenabres have never looked so welcoming to Liette. Never since leaving her home have the towering walls and reinforced battlements appeared so inviting. The enormous cranes loading supplies onto barges in the harbor below the sheer cliffs of the city loom against the horizon, angular way markers guiding Liette home. Or would guide her home, had she not other business to attend to.
The horse-drawn wagon rolling behind Liette as she walks through the streets makes a raucous noise of metal-shod wooden wheels on cobblestone, but over the sounds of dozens of blacksmith busily at work, the shouts and cries of soldiers marshaling into formation, and the shriek of armored gryphons being saddled for patrol runs makes the racket seem innocuous. Only twelve-thousand people call Kanabres home, and yet it feels like three times that much with the sheer amount of activity in the streets.
Exhausted from the road, Liette none the less cannot rest yet. She leads that horse pulling the wagon to a squat brick-faced building on the outskirts of Old Kanebres, one marked with a marble statue of Iomedae on its roof, sword raised and shield held out in front of her. As the wagon approaches out front, a hunched old woman tending the roses planted in lush beds out front looks up and drops her watering can with a startled shout.
The gardener lets out a yelp of surprise, hustling over as much as her old legs will allow her. Liette releases the horse's reins and takes a few steps closer before being enveloped in a warm embrace by the white-haired old woman. Liette returns the hug, her hands trembling and legs feeling weak once finally presented with the comforting arms of family. But Liette pulls away sooner than she'd like, apology spread across her face. "I need Mother," Liette murmurs as she motions back to the open-sided wagon. When the old groundskeeper sees what's inside, the gravity of the situation is understood.
"Bring him in," the old woman hastily states, parting from Liette to hustle to the front doors of the old structure. Liette circles back to the wagon, breaking into a job as she does.
She wasn't sure how much time was left.
With a glass in one hand and the other gesturing into the air, Liette smiles and swirls the wine around as she talks to one of the younger crusaders sitting beside her at the bar. Her fingers splay, pantomiming the movements of a desert drake through the air, bringing her hand down to swoop over the bartop and between an arrangement of shot glasses that are supposed to be rocks.
Liette recalls listening to seasoned crusaders who would stop at this bar, scouting for just the right young face to impress. Liette was doing the same thing, now, for all the same reasons that she once fell for. Her free hand takes the shape of a gun with one finger pointed out and thumb kicked back, she clicks her tongue and makes a blossoming gesture with her fingers to help the young man visualize a drake being shot in mid-air. She swirls her wine glass around with drunken laughter.
The young crusader leans forward, eager to hear the stories of a soldier from the front -- let alone a woman from the front. Liette was eager to help find a way to forget what was happening, forget where she'd been, forget her companions gathered at Clydwall. The haze of the wine was helping.
Shafts of sunlight spill through tall stained glass windows, creating multicolored patterns on the wooden floor of the chapel. Liette's footfalls sound irregular as she comes in, struggling to carry the weight of a man who cannot even walk any longer at her side. Sigmund's arm is slung around Liette's shoulder, she grips his wrist tightly with one hand, the other wrapped around his midsection, his feet drag now behind her. He no longer looks at anything or responds to words or touch.
The back doors burst open in a flurry of activity, a matronly looking woman in her late forties with salt and pepper hair in silver chainmail over red clothing carries an armful of scrolls. "What happened?" The greeting is not maternal, not gentle or loving, but strictly that of business. She sees the scar on Liette's face, casts her worry down deep and places a bootheel on it -- later.
"A fey-- thing. I don't know, we were in the swamps, it-- he's ill." Liette struggles to haul Sigmund over onto a backless pew, laying him down in the sight of an enormous marble sword driven into an altar, the stony blade set ablaze with supernatural flame. "Mother, I--"
Juliette Ameiri d'Argent is a pragmatic woman, distant to the point of hurtfulness if the need arises. Not now, her eyes say in stern warning to her daughter as she reaches for the spiral-etched pendant hanging around her own neck. "A disease," she states, taking a knee beside Sigmund with a hand on his sweaty brow. "Did anyone else contract it?" She doesn't look her daughter in the eyes, she isn't here to be a mother right now. It is what Liette needs, but not what the fading life in front of her requires.
"I-- " Liette loses her words for a moment, "Yes. Several of us had become sick, Crissor-- a Paladin-- relieved us of our ailments, but Sigmund relapsed." Concern paints its way across Liette's face as she sweeps her bangs back from her face. Her mother closes her eyes and exhales a breathy mantra over Sigmund, and her brow twists in discomfort at the result of what her incantation reveals.
As her pale eyes open, Juliette shakes her head subtly, and moves to push Liette aside. "Recite the first scroll," she instructs her daughter, motioning to one of the scrolls at her feet. "Red ribbon," gives clarity, and directs Liette to notice that they are all colored individually with thin ties.
Liette grabs the scroll from the floor, breaking the wax seal and unfurling the parchment. Her hands tremble.
In the dark, only a single candle in a glass sheathe lights the two moving figures in the room. Pale hair and scarred skin reflect candlelight, hard breathing and noises not fit for casual conversation accompany them with tangled linens and another's silhouette. Fingers tangle with hair and bodies move in ways they only do when not in battle.
An empty wine bottle on the floor lays with two pair of pants, boots not much further, a scarf and jacket beyond those making an obvious trail towards a closed door.
She doesn't know his name; this is how she copes.
Sigmund's back arches, fingers curl and mouth opens in a scream not his own. Eyes flutter open, staring vacantly at the ceiling, and the circle of powdered silver on the floor shines with light like the curtain of an aurora in shades of pink and red tinged with fiery gold.
"Wretched form, you will release him!" Juliette's voice rings out through the chapel walls, the shields bearing the sigils of the Knights of Ozem on the walls rattle and clatter noisily. Her holy symbol of Pharasma is held down at Sigmund in warding gesture, and black veins surge beneath his skin. Liette's voice joins that of her mother's, reciting from another scroll, white-knuckled grip on tattered parchment.
"I cast you out!" Juliette screams as wind picks up in the room, "I name you, shadowy fiend, I name you Alk'theruz!" Black vomit sprays from Sigmund's mouth as he bucks up and down against the pew, arms out at his side and hands grasping at the air. "I CAST YOU OUT!"
With no candle, only moonlight illuminates the room through a single window. Wrapped in a blanket like a robe, Liette stands in that pale light watching the city below. There is a matted down spot on the bed behind her where another person should be, spaces on the floor where someone else's clothing should lie. Instead they're empty, and company evicted. Outside, Kenabres sleeps with one eye open, torchlight burning on the walls and candles lighting the windows of many homes.
It is silent in her room, but Liette can still hear the whinny of fleshless horses at the back of her mind. She can still see the shredded remains of Nathaniel's corpse striking the ground like the scraps of meat from a butcher's table when she shuts her eyes. She can still feel the caustic acid burning her flesh just when she least expects it.
Liette can see the Worldwound from her window on the western horizon, where curtains of unnatural light shift and shimmer. She knows she is home, knows she is out, but she has come to realize why the haunted old crusaders would come to the tavern looking for young recruits to help them forget.
Glassy eyes stare vacantly at the ceiling, and Liette has not moved from the chair at Sigmund's bedside in hours. It was only after allowing her a brief respite for sleep that Juliette came to visit her again and check on her patient. Liette was not cognizant enough to know that her mother was avoiding her, and Juliette knew she could not keep up the evasion for much longer, even if she wanted to.
The hand on Liette's shoulder isn't so much comforting as it is a bracing one; there's worse yet to come. Juliette looks down at her daughter, raises a hand to brush bare knuckles against the burn scar on her face. "I don't know if he will ever recover," is what Liette feared, and Juliette looks away from her daughter when she sees her eyes wrench shut.
"He's alive, but the demonic presence that had possessed him..." Juliette looks down to the floor, "it wreaked havoc on him because he was fighting it. He has a strong will, he battled that fiend with all his might, but he paid for it. Even if he wakes, he may never be the same again. There is only so much I can do without access to even more powerful magic." She squeezes her daughter's shoulder, feels it trembling with emotion.
"Ask Father," Liette whimpers, "he can-- he can requisition-- s-something..." she's trying not to cry in front of her mother, but is unaware that Juliette is trying not to do the same.
The soft click of a brass-jacketed metal round being loaded into a revolver is comforting. Sitting on her bed, draped only in the linens she'd been trying to sleep under, Liette snaps Valor's cylinder shut with a noisy click. A brush of her thumb slowly spins that chamber, each click indicating the cycle of well-oiled parts six times. The pearl-inlaid grips used to match her skin tone, but the sun-beat Worldwound has tanned her, changed her and left its mark on her.
Liette wonders how many demons that gun has slain, how many lives its saved. She'd never thought to keep track once she went out into the field with Nathaniel and the others, never gave much thought to keeping tally like the other crusaders did. She wishes she had now, because it would add weight to the scales she's trying to balance. Perhaps it would make the thought of going back out there easier.
Admiring the gun, Liette spins the cylinder against her palm, it buzzes loudly as it cycles through the chambers. She can still hear the whinny of fleshless horses at the back of her mind. She can still see the shredded remains of Nathaniel's corpse striking the ground like the scraps of meat from a butcher's table when she shuts her eyes. She can still feel the caustic acid burning her flesh just when she least expects it.
She puts the barrel of Valor in her mouth.
Juliette's voice strains as she tries to talk, finally working up the nerve to tell her daughter where her crusader father had been since she returned home.
"Your father is dead."
The hammer comes down with only a hollow click. Now, Liette breaks down in a ragged sob. Now, she can grieve.
You may be able to leave the Worldwound, but it never leaves you.
Crissor hauled the groups collected trophies in for the bounty and later split up all the earnings with the group. He tossed a platinum piece into the air, 'calling' it heads or tails and seeing which one it would show up as, to pass the time, then once everyone had their share in platinum he first made his way to the Watchful Blade, seeking a bath.
It was one of the things, his father told him, "No one likes a smelly person regardless of occupation or demeanor." There was also the stigma Gnolls had of being unclean, eaters of the dead, and revealers in filth. So appearing clean, well mannered, and as well spoken as possible for his tongue was chief concerns in civilized areas.
When he bathed his thoughts turned to Liette, and Abigail, and the others. For the first time he had friends he counted on. He was in a place that when he appeared at the gates, spear heads were not pointed at him, until others spoke for him.
Once he had cleaned himself he turned to his armor, cleaning it as well, there was desert sand, swamp muck, and there was blood. His blood, from wounds healed by magic, leaving scars that his fur would cover as if they were never there. But there was also his friend's blood, those friends, who he swore to protect. And how good of a job had that been? It wasn't just Nathaniel, who in Crissor's mind possessed a bravery greater than his own. Or Sirhan who had such wolf like looks it reminded the gnoll a bit of himself. Or Hallf who had to watch his beloved dinosaur die, it was the whole lot of seeing himself as a protector getting torn down around him. He was good with a bow because he and his Halfling father believed stopping the encroaching evil a long bow shot away was better then doing it face to face when that evil could get it's claws in you.
By the time he made it back to the tavern proper and got his Dragon Punch, he looked as fresh and ready to go out as he had the first time, but he wasn't quite the same, he kept his smile on the outside, and drank, sparingly of course, enjoying the company of people who didn't give rat's behind what he looked like.
Even though his thoughts still drifted to concern of welfare for Liette, he was distracted by a rat like humanoid and his words.
"By all means you are welcome here Tik..nesr." the gnoll smiled but was careful not show his teeth. He outstretched his hand, claws now free of dirt. "My name is Crissor Salem, come share more of where your from."
The man drops. His hands relax, his arms droop, blood rushes from his face as his carefully honed expression collapses into nothingness. He retains barely enough poise to hit a chair rather than the floor on his way down. Whatever bearing and poise he might have possessed is instantly destroyed. He stares at his hand pressed flat against the table as it slowly begins to tremble. He moves it to his lap and holds it tight for a long moment.
"He... he is dead." Thaddeus' eyes slam shut for another moment before opening, as he looks up at Abigail. Letting loose a racking breath, he speaks- "I... I will shortly not seek to disturb you any more, crusaders. I must deal with my bas- my son's passing myself. And you have other business." He tilts his head towards the rat. "But first...first I must ask you a small boon. What was my son? Did he fight or harness magics? He was brave you say, how so? Was he respected, or liked or loved by any of you? What did he seek to accomplish in the future, how did he accomplish what he did with you?" The words pour at at a rapidly increasing speed, freezing curtly as the final word blasts out. Another breath is taken. "For... forgive my countenance and my insistence, please; when I last saw my son he had not even reached manhood."
< >
Relieved to have guessed right at least that they would welcome him at their table, Tiknesr smiles at each in turn, bowing his head slightly. "Abigail of Erestil, may your service to Old Deadeye ever hit the mark. Viorel Aziara, no feeble mind indeed! Your words betray wisdom, and a good heart as well.", Tiknesr coos. Accepting Crissor's extended hand (the rat’s small hand soft and limp in the gnoll's more massive grip) "Crissor Salem, well met indeed. I am comforted in the presence of your bold strength,”
Now I need to find out how far they can be trusted, and if they're truly talented crusaders. I’m not making the same mistake again, going out into that blasted ‘Wound with just anyone. ”I yearn to hear tales of your adventures in the Worldwound. I can share my own as well, though I confess my time here has gotten off to a rough beginning.”
He pauses to gauge their reactions when Thaddeus arrives and speaks. Suddenly the mood changes completely. Ahh, but this may well be what tells me who these crusaders truly are.
”Oh you poor dearies, how long had you been working together, side-by-side? And you Thaddeus, coming all this way to see your long-lost son? Some days I think the gods have the cruelest humor.” Tiknesr shakes his head, tugging at his whiskers and chuckling ruefully.
At Thaddeus's suggestion of a tale, Tiknesr abruptly changing his manner. ”Quite right, Thaddeus!” he exclaims, raising his glass up. ”Stories of your fallen comrade, so that his deeds will not be forgotten!”
Viorel nods at Abigails description. "Respected? Liked? The man was with me from the first day I set foot into the wound. If I had neither we would have parted ways long before his passing. Brave he was certainly to the point of being foolhardy at times. Luckily Barthimeus that was his companion from the outer planes complimented that with certain patience. As for out of combat, a certain cunning, he had an eye for women. You certainly shouldn't have regrets about what your son made of himself in this world." The mages expressions is a bit happier, he dealt with the sorrow out in the wound, now he is reminiscing a friend.
Over the myriad of days the crusaders have spent preparing and re-arming themselves in Mendev, Liette has spent her time moving on from a state of mourning for friends lost and family departed. In and around the d'Argent compound she reacquainted herself with her longtime mentor Alversio Kaladan, a gunsmith and alchemist from Alkenstar who trains the marksmen of the crusade. Having seen the failures of traditional rank-and-file combat in the Worldwound, Liette sought out his instruction and tutelage to move away from squad-based tactics into individual combat training with her firearms.
Alongside knight crusader Jonas Breighton, a distant cousin on her mother's side, Liette sequestered herself away in the d'Argent family estate to relearn how to effectively be an asset to both her allies and a blade at her enemies' throats. Forsaking her former training of tactical positioning and group combat, which she has seen falls apart in practice in the Worldwound, Liette struggles to learn the desperate and brutal forms of gunplay that soldiers manning the border of the Worldwound practice.
Dug down in trenches and firing through narrow pillbox-style bunkers of log timber and earthen mounds, Liette's sharpshooting refines against the fast moving and erratic simulations of demonic opposition. Crusader Breighton assists her in moving away from relying on group tactics and instead harnessing the power of her faith in more direct and potent measure. Instead of dividing the power of her own righteous indignation upon her allies, she focuses on turning her fury into focused bursts of hot lead destined to tear through the ranks of the Abyss.
For a full month, Liette battles alongside crusaders and captured demons, learning how to call on Iomedae's grave to her firearms, allowing her to fire straight through fog and smoke without vision, how to pick the horns off of a galebrezu at three-hundred feet, and how to turn a demon's own corrupt nature against itself with an expanded practice of litanies designed to weaken demonic foes.
Liette would no longer be the odd-duck out in her family's training, and in honor of her fallen crusader father she would learn his way. While her father favored the bow in battle alongside the Knights of Ozem, Liette's firearms bring upon them the same divine retribution from a distance... a parallel that she hopes pleases her father, wherever he is now.
Crissor raises the bottle of Dragon Punch in appreciation of Abigail's telling of Nathaniel's deeds, he doubted he could of said it better. He continued to nurse it and finally added. "Bravery is a word that I will forever attach to Nathaniel's legacy. If there was more hearts like his, this wound would be cleansed with ease."
Mourning is done in different ways for different people, Crusaders are no different in this respect. By fulfilling Thaddeus Trelane's wishes, the Crusaders who knew his son best helped in his own personal mourning, allowing him to take his leave of them and allow this group of oddly-knit companions time to mourn in their own ways.
Canny observers of the keep's tavern spot a figure by the entrance, conversing with Thaddeus in confidence. A slight frame, a familiar jacket, distinctive white hair. They talk alone, mourning in their own ways. In the end, Thaddeus and Liette embrace for a moment, before she hands over something wrapped in cloth to him and takes her leave.
It has been a month since the others had seen Liette, a month since she took Sigmund to her family estate and a sentinel chapel of the Knights of Ozem for long-term care. Indirect missives had flown back and forth in that time, letters sent to the keep to indicate that she was preoccupied with business and updates on Sigmund's health. But this was the first time her companions had seen Liette since arriving in Kenebres, and while externally she looked much the same as when they'd parted ways, time -- and mourning in her own ways -- had changed much internally.
The jingle of her spurs on approach to the communal table announces her arrival, hands resting relaxed on her holstered revolvers, long jacket swishing side to side. As she comes up to the table, it is clear she is carrying Sigmund's holy symbol of Iomedae around her neck, two platnum rings once worn by the cleric looped onto the chain on either side of the sword symbol.
"Please tell me y'all weren't just gettin' drunk an' fat while I was in the trenches?" The smile Liette offers is a wry one, though not quite as vibrant as the ones she was able to manage before things got as bad as they did out in the Worldwound. Then, one scarred brow quirking up, she offers a look to TIknesr.
"Holy balls, ain't never seen the rats in here get this big." It's hard to tell if she's joking or not.
”Just wait until you see the rat I rode here on,” Tiknesr giggles, ”Ho-ho--(snort)--tee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee.”
Turning on his stool, he restrains his laughter and extends a soft, pink hand to her. ”Tiknesr Th’th’th’th’slifp, former Grand Elder of the Th’th’th’th’slifp coven in (or rather under) Cassomir; now a crusader like you. I’ve just been getting acquainted with your comrades. And who, may I ask, are you?”
Crissor laughes "Considering my parents getting fat when resting is the norm." He then stretches and pops a great deal of knotted muscles. "But the world is always a better place when your here Liette, welcome back."
Squinting at the enormous rat creature as he speaks in an accented Taldan, Liette crosses her arms over her chest and shifts her weight to one foot. A single, pale brow kicks up at the creature's inquiry, and more pointedly to his hand. "Bad luck on two legs, Pointy," Liette answers the vermin-man rather callously. Then, on considering her response, she exhales a weary sigh and scrubs the heel of her palm against her brow lightly.
"Liette d'Argent," is a begrudging introduction, followed by an askance look to the others at the table. "Ostensibly these people's tactician," though the honor sounds somewhat dubious, especially considering more recent missteps.
Liette offers Crissor only a mild smile and little more, seeming to be having a hard time reintegrating herself with the others. With one last look at Tiknesr, Liette offers the rat-man a word of advice. "If you've got scruples, y'might just want t'mount up on yer, uh, steed..." she seems to have taken the mount comment literally, "an' get s'far away from here s'possible. This table's full of short lives."
Running a hand through her hair, Liette remains standing at one end of the table when Abigail makes her statement and inquiry. Brows furrowed and another sigh slipping out of her, Liette nods in reluctant agreement to the older woman. "I've-- I know some people, through m'family. Knights of Ozem, primarily. They're a sect of the Iomedean faith dedicated t'fighting the undead. My father--" Liette cuts herself off and changes the direction of the conversation.
"It ain't no high priest I've got connections with. But if we make it public what we've got," Liette shoots an askance look to Tiknesfr, then back to Abigail, "whoever we want'll come crawling out of the woodwork."
Tiknesr tugs lazily at his long white mustache as Liette introduces herself. He looks around at each of the crusaders he’s just met. Eh, I could do worse. Oh bother, I did do much worse, last time. This crew seem like they genuinely cared for their fallen comrade. That’s something...not that it guarantees they’ll shed a tear for a rat.
They’ve been out in the ‘Wound long enough, they must be reasonably competent and know how to work as a team to some degree. And one of them can at least call herself their tactician with a straight face; that can’t hurt. Hopefully they’re not so in love with honor and principle that they forsake all practicality...but I guess with crusaders one can’t be too picky...
At Liette’s warning, Tiknesr chuckles ruefully. ”Oh, these old bones have a few years left in them, I’ll wager. If you think death’s nipping at only your heels though, I think you’re flattering yourself. All lives are short, as near as I can tell. And lives up here seem to be shorter still."
The ratfolk's hind leg reaches up inside his robes, scratching some itch. ”I don’t mean to take stupid risks, but I haven’t gotten to be the witch I am by eating crumbs in cupboards, either. There is too much to learn up here, and too many treasures to win. Not to mention saving the civilized world from all manner of unpleasantness. If you’ve room for another companion in your midst...well, I’m pleased to see the feeling you have for your fallen comrade. After my disastrous first foray I’ve been hesitant to throw in with just anyone, but your outfit seems like one where I wouldn’t be foolish to cast my lot.”
At that, a foot-long rat with the hands and face of a man pokes out from one of Tiknesr's voluminous sleeves, sniffing at them. “Yeah, these guys seem legit. Better than that first crew you threw in with...but then that first group you threw in with were losers. You know I told you so.” the little ratling turns his ugly man-face toward the rest of the group. ”He needs to listen to me more. They were clearly morons. Pounded to a pulp by giants not five weeks out from Kenabres. Pathetic! You guys look tougher though.”
Tiknesr glares at his familiar, and then turns back to face the group, explaining, ”They didn’t know how to work together as a swarm, too stuck in their individual habits and limited imaginations. If life in the undercity between Cassomir and Corgunbier has taught me anything, it's that collaboration and creative thinking are always key to victory. You all seem like some seasoned crusaders who understand the importance of working together as one swarm.”
”Yeah, and that aren’t losers” the ugly man-faced familiar poking out Tiknesr’s sleeve says.
Tiknesr grits his teeth. "Please forgive my familiar. He...doesn't know when to shut up."
The ratling repeats mockingly, with a faux-nasally voice, "'Please forgive my fam-i-li-ar'" and then smiles (a smile that’s uncomfortably close to a sneer, showing off his pointy yellowed teeth) and salutes with his tiny, man-like hand. ”The name's Aroden. No relation.”
You might be right, Liette. But everyone who should not know about this mace will be informed too.