"I am Yasin, yes." the man says, voice careful, as if weighing Connacht's word.s "It has been a long time since Taldor has sent any agent to us, long before my time here."
He pauses then goes on, "Come, let us sit in the shade. The sun is a mighty symbol of my goddess, but even her servants sometimes need to hide from her fury in this land." The old man leads the druid to a bench carved into the thick, painted walls of the temple. It is long and deep, and as Yasin sits at one end he waves for Connacht to sit as well, if he wished.
"I only have wine to drink, if you wish it. I can call for my acolyte."
The the old man narrows his eyes, and settles into the stone seat as if aware the pleasantries were over. "Your questions ask much, agent of Taldor, at our first meeting. Even if I knew you well, I would be right to be careful For the Imperial Court is subtle, I hear, and fond of punishing those who are too trusting. But you speak of community? There is not much of one here, in these later days. Although," and his eyes twinkle, 'Perhaps more then you would guess, being new visitor."
Connacht follows the older man's lead. Even with the protective spell on him, the heat inside the temple was far more than he was comfortable with. He sits on the bench carved into the wall, appreciating the opportunity for rest, however brief.
"Please, there is no need, although the offer is appreciated." The lawman politely declines the offered alcohol, having already had some for the day and not particularly wanting to give the first impression of a drunkard to the priest.
His face turns into a bit of a frown at the holy man's caution- not a frown of anger, but of a somewhat expected disappointment. " I would become a dishonest man if I told you that your assessment of the imperial court on the whole was mistaken." He turns away for a moment, thinking for a brief spell before continuing. "I can't speak for the schemes of the court beyond saying the likely reason they sent me here- to hunt down the bandits that have been attacking the caravans that come through Wheldrake. Gods know that their finances could use some actual currency, not whatever paper schemes of invented money they use."
"I don't wish to impose upon you. I don't wish to compel you into breaking the trust of anyone you have in confidence. But, at the very least, if you could inform an outsider of who holds power here and what customs are particular to this place, that would be most welcome. I come here to help, and I would prefer to not have my own ignorance stand on the way of that.... and would you prefer I use some title when speaking to you? Or is just Yasin fine?"
The old man watches Connacht very carefully through all of this, obviously looking for lies, half-truths or misdirection. Apparently finding none, he grunts softly in surprise and relaxes ever so slightly. Still his tone is somewhat guarded as he says, "The likely reason may be what you say. But there have been bandits before and no one has been sent before. You may be the tool of greater men."
Then he shrugs, "Or not. The Court is full of strange designs and who knows why they do anything, if there even is a reason. Like as not someone mis-filed a form and you were meant to be sent to Qadira."
When Connacht asks about customs the man raises an eyebrow, "Roots here go deep, young man. This is an old place and has stood the test of time. It is like a withered old tree, bent before the wind, clinging to the bare rock. Tough, battered, broken but with a memory of times when they stood tall and proud, the envy of many. Despite appearances I would step lightly for there are many here who cling to their memories and power."
"As for title, I am a humble servant of the Everlight. The bright light does not blind me, but illuminates wisdom." He smiles gently, "Yasin is fine, at least when we aren't in service. But you are well spoken, that may help you."
What would a man such of yourself know of the imperial court... it was true that the court’s reputation preceded itself. However, Yasin seeemed well informed for a small town’s priest. That, along with the man’s skepticism only fueled his suspicions that Yasmin was a man to be taken seriously.
”One would hope not,” Connacht says in response to the remark about Qadira. ”But if I am a tool of some higher force, I am an unwitting one. The high court may well have its reasons for sending me here. I’ve got mine for them. “
And finally, an answer to my question. Connacht seems mildly surprised at the advice but nods his head at Yasin’s words about the pride of Wheldrake, ”Truth be told, I would not have guessed this to be the case based on the greeting I received when I first came here. Your advice is appreciated.”
Connacht pauses for a moment and thinks over where to go next before settling on a more recent topic. ”On the topics of your services- when are they, typically? I am not a follower of the dawnflower, but I would like to watch one at some point, if you do not mind. I know the faith of the Dawnflower is not always looked upon with favor by the Imperial court, but I hold your faith in high regard. Besides, if I’m going to be here for long, it is only fitting for me to understand the faith followed by many of this town’s inhabitants.“ He hoped the offer wouldn’t be taken poorly- he didn’t want to give the impression of some “enlightened” outsider gawking at what he considered to be a primitive specifical, but at the end of the day he was curious, on both a professional and personal level.
Yasin chuckles when Connacht mentions the less then moving greeting he received upon his arrival. "I will admit, some people hold memories more dear then others. There are some, of course, who have forgotten the old ways but you might be shocked to see what happens if changes come this way. And of course, the noble Lord is as proud as you could hope, even by Taldan standards."
When Connacht mentions religious services, the man straightens, wary again in an instant. His face becomes a still mask, worn skin hiding all emotion. He speaks slowly, carefully, as if feeling out a threat,
"I hope them here, usually, although on some holy days I retire to the hills for solitude. Not many here actually follow my faith actually. On most days, as you can see, I worship alone. Religion is not a major concern for Wheldrake these days, and the few who feel the call tend to use the plaza. I'm sure you saw it?"
"Returning a place back to the old ways is certainly a cause I can get behind." Connacht says, now more relaxed himself. "And I... cannot say I disagree with your take on Lord Trenzi." A bit of a smile forms at that. Yasin didn't seem like the type to go out of his way to ruin friendships by exposing something as petty as that opinion.
That said- maybe there really was more to the man than first appearances. "Well, that's a shame." The druid says upon learning about the general lack of religious devotion in the town. "I assure you that my interest here is entirely personal. I'm not here to start a Royal Inquisition, and at any rate the worship of Sarenrae is permitted in Taldor, even if it is frowned upon in some corners. I - " He's about to mention his own faith before catching himself. In all likelihood, there was nothing he had to worry about from this man.
Then again... there was a shrine to Norgorber in the courtyard, as well as to other deities more fowl than that for all he knew. And after everything he had been through, he had reason to be cautious on this front.
He didn't relish having the blood of a man he considered his friend on his hands again, however justified it might be.
"Well, you strike me as a more reflective man than most. Connacht says truthfully enough. "I might be a young man , but I've at least wizened up enough to know that I'm ignorant about many things. I figured you might be the type of man who's sermons are worth listening to. " Connacht shrugs, silently wondering if that assessment is true.
Connacht can sense that Yasin is very uncomfortable with an agent of the Imperial Crown asking for details about his faith. Even more then would be expected from the sometimes illegal, sometimes not Sarenrea status in Taldor (which by some guidelines, Connacht is no longer in).
Yasin snorts suddenly and says, "Trenzi is no lord. He is a civil servant and he'd reprimand you for even suggesting he is angling above his station." he shakes his head and laughs, "Trenzi a lord. No, I meant House Sabinus, which if my old ears are not cheated, you are about to meet, in some capcity."
Then Connacht's quick ears can hear it to. A light footstep behind them, at the entrance to the temple. Turning the druid can see a young man standing there, dressed in well-made leathers, shining with newness. As his eyes adjust to the bright light, Connacht can see the man is younger then he thought, probably only sixteen or so, although rather tall for his age. His well-made face would be handsome except for the sneer across it. Dirty blonde hair glints in the sun, and there is a rapier at his belt.
He points a finger at Connacht. 'You there, come with me." He says, voice full of peremptory command, bored and somewhat annoyed.
Oh no, there’s one that’s worse than Trenzi? Connacht thinks with some measure of dread. He’d at least been able to come to something of a working agreement with the civil servant in charge of the Caravansari.
But of course, the priests reaction would have to be... investigated. With any luck it was some mistake from his past that he didn’t want to come to the light. Or it could not be. In any case, he pretends however briefly to ignore the priest’s questionable response. Besides, as he turned around and saw the young man, he realized he must have made a horrible mistake.
I didn’t pay respects to the local nobility first. he thinks to himself as he lets out a sigh and stands up. ”Well, duty calls apparently. Yasin, thank you for your hospitality.” He says as he stands up and gives the man a bow. ”May the light of the Dawnflower guide your path.”
Unless Yasin has anything else to say to him, Connacht walks over to the young man. ”I assume you are with House Sabinus? Might you enlighten me as to whom I have the honor of speaking to?”
Yasin nods and says, very quietly, "Good luck, you are going to need it."
At the doorway, the young man gives Connacht a look usually reserved for slimy things under rocks. His lip curls, revealing perfectly white teeth, and he says, voice cold, "If I desire your conversation, I will ask for it, traveler. Your guess is accurate and should be enough to hold your tongue."
Without another word he walks away, heading toward the second oasis and the groves of trees Connact saw from a distance. The sun is starting to slant now, and the heat even more oppressive as the mid-afternoon sun glares off the stones and dirt. The town looks dried and desiccated in the washed out rays of the sun. The druid can see little hint of the grandeur or glory Yasin was hinting at.
Connacht's head filled with all manner of appropriate rebukes to the arrogance that radiates from the young man. For now though, he bites his tongue and simply nods his head, acquiescing to the request.
Why did I know someone who thought highly of themselves would live here? Connacht muses to himself as he realizes the destination the boy was leading him too. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that in all likelihood that it would be for the best if whoever ruled house Sabinus had no say in determining the prominence of rank between himself and Trenzi. What he really wanted to know was if this Lord's real power extended beyond the walls of his house- something that was an open question at this point.
Connacht follows quietly, moving across the the hot ground. His guide ignores the various shacks and houses without looking at them, striding as proudly as any Taldan grandee Connacht saw in the streets of Oppara. Frankly wondered where the lad had learned such imperiousness, usually it took such aristocrats years to master such a sublime indifference to the world around them.
Their path takes them directly under the groves of trees and as soon as they hit the shade, Connacht is relived to find the heat lessened. The dry air doesn't hold heat very well and as soon as they are out of the sun, the temperature drops rapidly. Above him green boughs play in the breeze, sending down shifting shadows of light. Peering up, he sees the groves are much more extensive then he first thought, reaching back deep into the valley into hidden ravines, probably leading to small springs or wet spots. The druid can name most of the trees of course, most of them fruit trees. Orange, apple, almond dominate, but a few pears and peach trees too. But there are others, including lofty elms, thick oaks and even a few tall straight ash trees. However planted these groves did so with skill and diversity in mind.
Here and there Connacht sees men and women at work. They do not appear to be mindless serfs, toiling away (as was too frequent in Taldor proper). Instead he sees normal workers going about their tasks at a deliberate pace, picking up fallen branches, trimming boughs, or tending ripening fruit. Scattered among the rows of trees Connacht sees huts and shacks. Work spaces or housing? Hard to tell at this distance.
Soon they are walking on a stone path, inlaid with local rocks in a simple mosaic. It may have been painted once, a long time ago, but has been faded by sun and the passing of many feet. Rounded white boulders edge it, making it a rather pleasant natural feeling pathway.
Directly ahead lies the large two story house. It is a sturdy wood frame construction, with a heavy stone foundation, slate roof atop. A wide wrap-around porch circles the entire building, which is painted in greens and browns. Flowers in baskets dot the porches, as well as growing in well tended beds around the entire building, put through here and there with dirt paths. Behind, barely visible looks to be a elegant garden of some type, complete with pagoda and hedges.
A young girl is sitting by the edge of the pathway, picking at some flowers. Connacht's guide gives her a passing kick saying, 'Out of the way, Sophia." The girl looks at him with a mixture of fear and anger, but soon vanishes into the green underworld of the groves.
In a moment they are at the broad wooden stairs leading to the porch, worn and weathered. The young man says in his first words since their walk started, "Stay here, traveler." he turns, then turns back adding, "Don't touch anything." Then vaults the stairs in quick and easy strides, quickly vanishing into the home.
From the woods, all the workers are staring at Connacht, including a burly half-orc who looks to be the overseer or foreman, wide straw hat on his rounded head.
Connacht does his best to use the silence to try and absorb what information he can about the place, observing what he can.
I don’t like you. He firmly decides as he watches the young lord kick one of the workers. A part of him wants to issue a rebuke, but before he gets the chance too the lord has moved on and the servant has scurried off into the brush. There’ll be another time. .
He remains silent at the young man’s continued condescension as he leaves and enters the house. Once the boy is out of sight, Connacht relaxes, breathes for what seams to be the first time in minutes, and pulls out his canteen for a drink. ”Is he always like this?” Connacht asks the various people observing him, not even expecting an answer but assuming that the answer would be a resounding affirmative.
Connacht words echo into the trees. The workers, whoa re a bit too distant to reply easily anyway stay silent. A few politely turn or advert their eyes but most simply watch the traveler drink from his canteen. The trees rustle overhead, pale leaves swaying in the breeze. The scent of cool water and wood fill Connacht's nose, more refreshing then any drink.
Then the door to the home opens again and Connacht's guide steps out, and takes a place on a lower stair, looking as supercilious as ever. Behind him another figure steps out, with a fluid easy stride. To Connacht's surprise it is a woman, probably in her middle thirties maybe older. She is wearing leather armor, with a finely-made mail surcoat over it, rippling in shining sheets of steel rings. A simple metal helm covers her head, letting a long sheet of blonde hair flow down to her shoulders. Tall and strong, she looks down on Connacht from the top of the stairs. Despite the bulky armor, Connacht can't help but notice she has a shapely and attractive figure buried underneath the gear of war.
Suddenly Connacht realizes. Wheldrake was a land outside of time, untouched by the changes that have slowly washed over (and ossified) Taldor. Trenzi with his old books, wigs and obsession with lineage was a relic of the ancient civil service of Imperial Taldor, long since degraded to money hungry bureaucrats. But this woman served another tradition. Long ago, when Taldor was young the aristocrats and noble families had been fighters, warriors, the highest soldiers in the land, leading armies and expected to be ready at any time, to go into battle for their liege lord. Since then, the nobles had long since degenerated into foppish dandies, far more concerned with parties and social standing then war. This stern and powerful looking woman however, was of the old stock. Here at least, the old noble class of Taldor, that built an empire, ran true. Another relic, but not one easily dismissed.
Curtly she says, "Leave us, Alexis." The young man starts, scowls then slouches off into the house. Before he vanishes the woman adds, voice firm, "If I see you touch one of your siblings again, I will make sure you limp for a week."
Like a beaten dog the young man hurries away, vanishing into the cavernous gloom of the open door.
Then the woman turns her piercing eyes on Connacht, and the druid sees her eyes are a deep brown, alive with intelligence and observation.
"I am Theodora Sabinus, current lord of this province. That was my son, Alexis. You will treat him with the respect his rank and station deserve." Her eyes look knowingly at the druid. "What brings you to my domain, traveler? Speak true, I do not enjoy being lied to."
A frown briefly creeps up onto Connacht's face at the reaction of the servants to his question. And that's a yes.
The druid had prepared himself for a farcical imitation of the decadence in Taldor. He's taken aback by the sight of a woman in armor claiming to be a lord, and he finds himself straightening his back and readying himself. There was strength here, if nothing else.
Maybe I can work with this situation after all.
"But of course." Connacht says to "lord" Sabinus as he gives the woman a deep bow in complete honesty- for that boy held no more rank or station by the laws of Taldor than any of the servants near by. And for that matter, neither did this woman.
Of course, weather he would actually lift a finger to inform anyone of that would be entirely up to Lord Sabinus "I come here on government business, my La...my Lord. I am Imperial Agent Metayer, by the grace of the gods and the Crown of Taldor, in the Avin Prefecture generally and the town of Wheldrake specifically. I trust that these documents ought to be sufficient to prove I am who I claim to be." Repeating the same phrase he used for Trenzi, he pulls out the documents that granted him his authority.
The woman's eyes never leave Connacht'as face, ignoring the proffered sheets of papers. Unlike Trenzi this one is not impressed by documents and legality. She searches Connacht's face for a lie, one eyebrow raised.
"Government business? What type of business? We have lived here for centuries now without outside influence or Taldor caring what we did. Why send you now? What powers did they think they gave you?"
”As shown in the document, enforcing the laws of Taldor, and specifically dealing with the safety of the caravans. “ Connacht explains his reasoning for arriving to this town. ”As for why- Well, from what I can tell they aren’t getting as many caravans as they used to. Probably hurts the imperial finances. “
”Power? No, they gave me no power. Merely the legal authority, and the occasional spare change they deign call a salary. Truth be told, provided they see an uptick in revenue from the caravans, I doubt Taldor really will care all to much about what goes on here.“
If I care or not is a different story. But that was best left unsaid.
The woman takes two steps down toward Connacht, never breaking eye contact. As she moves closer Connacht can see her eyes are a slate gray, shimmering in the afternoon light. They are hard, calculating and full of intelligence.
Halting at the lowest step, the noble of House Sabinus says, "I am tempted to kill you and drop your body in a rocky canyon, Imperial Agent Metayer. I have a feeling it would make my life much easier." Those eyes tell Connacht this woman is quite capable of doing such a thing if she thought it was in her best interest.
But then she nods, crisply, "However, these bandits have been bothering me as well. They have grown over bold in these recent years, troubling not only the caravans but us as well. Never a direct attack you understand, that would be foolish or them. But the various hunters and prospectors have reported being harassed by them. I have been contemplating leading a force against them for some time now, indeed. Perhaps it is fortunate you have arrived."
One of her perfectly arranged eyebrows lifts as she adds, "You have skills and talents appropriate to your mission, of course?"
Any pretension of pleasantries Connacht had been keeping up vanish at he woman's clear threat. He meets her gaze without flinching. She probably would be able to take him on in a fight- especially if she was able to call in help. Connacht hoped he could at least give the impression it would be a painful process for both parties involved.
He listens to the woman's reason for not killing him outright and answers her question. "I would not be here if that wasn't the case, my lord." There is a bit more of a harsh edge in his voice than before. "If you already have a plan in the works for dealing with the bandits, I would be more than glad to assist."
A shadow of a smile crosses the woman's fair face when Connacht answers in rougher tones, but it passes quickly. "No, I have no plans. I am sure the bandits have allies in town who inform them of everything we do, even myself. Up until now I have been loath to upset the happy equilibrium of Wheldrake, but with your arrival..."
And it becomes clear to the druid. Lady Lord Sabinus intends to use Connacht as a lightning rod to draw any anger or disapproval of military action while remaining the main decision maker.
She nods, "Indeed. Have you decided where you will be staying? I have suitable accommodations in my home, if you wish. It would be an honor to house a direct representative of the imperial crown, one not given to us for many years."
Connacht is somewhat taken aback by the realization of Lord Sabinus’s plans. He makes peace quickly with it though, but he can’t help himself from muttering ”The more things change...”, assuming the latter half of the phrase did not need to be uttered. He had expected this level of nonsense from politicians in the south. He had come up here to whip a lawless wasteland into shape.
It’s not that he couldn’t deal with it. But this was not a welcome change of plans by a long shot.
Connacht shakes his head at the offer of lodging. ”No thank you, I’ve reached accommodations with Trenzi already.“ And I’m not stupid enough to sleep in the same house as someone who has already hinted at killing me. ”Well then, shall that be all, Lord Sabinus, or do you have anything else for me at this time?”
Theodora smiles like a cat, whose prey danced out of her reach but knows the other paw is coming.
"Of course. It is fitting that a visitor stay at the caravansari, I suppose. Consider my house and myself at your disposal for the duration of your stay. Long live the Empire." Her final words are honest and forthright and Connacht has the feeling, whatever else, she is a Taldane patriot.
Connacht is just about to leave when she utters that last line. At that, Connacht adds, "And all those subservient to Her laws. My Lord " He doesn't say the last word in a mocking tone as he takes a bow- there's an uncomfortable emphasis added.
He neither rushes to get away or meanders around as he leaves Sabinus's property, returning to the rest of Wheldrake. Well, where on earth do I go from here. He thinks to himself as he, for now, wanders the town. He needed to clear if head, certainly, and more importantly he needed to get a good grip on the lay out of the town. This could accomplish both at the same time.
He's got no particular destination in mind, at least not yet, but he does take an effort to avoid the parts of town that he had already been told to avoid. And for now, he simpliy mulls over his predicament.
Connacht starts to walk the 'streets' of Wheldrake, his mind full of thoughts. In some ways the town was much what expected, in others way not so much. What would actually effect his ability to deal with the bandits (whom he still had basically zero knowledge of) was anyone's guess. Mind busy, his feet move him among the buildings and shacks.
They take him into the more crowded poorer looking area, where the shacks are more slapdash and household gardens more weedy. The sun is dipping into the west now, slowly heading toward the far horizon. The shadows are growing long and the oppressive heat is dissipating. He sees more people out and about then before, apparently Wheldrake locals like to avoid the brutal midday sun. Quite unlike Taldor proper, where people tend to sleep in late and party well into the night, at least the upper classes. The poor peasants were forced to toil int he fields no matter how hot it got.
Even as Connacht is contemplating this cultural shift, he hears a voice call out to him. "Do you want your fortune, stranger?" Turning he sees the doorway of a ramshackle shack, larger then the others, right on the edge of the dirty pool others called the Slick. A wide porch wraps around but the voice is coming from a shadowy and as yet undiscovered interior. "Reasonable price..."
Connacht is indulging in a bit of self pitty as he walks thoroughly the streets of Wheldrake. It's fairly straightforward work, finding landmarks in the buildings, markers to ground himself in his location. It's a slow process, but he feels his mental map of the town growing, at least for now.
I'll have to speak for Trenzi about this. No doubt the prefect knew full well that women cannot inherit titles in Taldor. Connacht himself expected there was very little he would be able to do about the situation on a practical level, but it still sits poorly with him. He did not, for a single moment, think that Sabinus was the sort of person who should wield political authority. The issue wasn't competence- it was temperment. [i]I really still am in Taldor, after all.[i]
Not for the first time, he reminisces on how none of this had really been what he expected. He's in the middle of that when the voice call out to him from the larger building. He stops for a moment, thinks for a spell, then says, "I might? How reasonable are we talking about?" The question was honest enough- he wasn't exactly swimming in money after all.
"Nothing you can't afford, stranger."
A thin figure steps out of the shadowy doorway, wearing a simple tunic and vest embroidered with strange foreign looking runes. It is a human man, slightly shorter then Connacht in nicely tailored leather boots. His short black beard is nearly trimmed, setting off a sharp chin and small nose. The bright green eyes do not have the usual wells of contemplation usually found in fortune tellers but instead are sharp and roving, almost painfully penetrating. Long, slender fingers interlocked before him the man adds,
"I consider it a quirk of mine, to do the fortune of everyone who comes into Wheldrake. Few have regretted it." he waves into the dark interior of the large shack. Connacht can read little from his voice or manner and that worries the druid as most people have a hard time hiding their intentions from him. Here is a wily one.
Connacht instinctively tenses as he finds himself scanning his surroundings. He'd dealt with travelers who found themselves mugged by slippery folks looking to dupe a fool of a traveler. He wasn't used to being never been on the receiving end of these sorts of schemes... and he didn't plan on being on the end of one now.
Assuming he doesn't find anything in his surroundings that raises any undo alarms, he slowly begins walking toward the building. "Mind if I get your name, friend?" He asks, doing his best to seem somewhat relaxed. Need something to call you other than "the shady fellow". That's gonna get repetitive soon.
Connacht looks around for the usual signs of deceit but sees none. No 'second man' waiting to club a helpless mark, or to at least pickpocket him. No scent of intoxicating drugs on the air or signs of traps. As far as it went, things looked safe and Connacht felt sure he could take this man in a fight if it came to that.
"My name is Viorec.'Connacht catches a slight accent in his speech, something not of Taldor or Casmaron. Something Avistani but not local. Also, as the man turns away to lead the way into the darkened house, Connacht catches a strange tattoo on the man's wrist, faded with age. "And you are Connacht Metayr, Taldor official. Now with introductions out of the way.."
He sweeps through the door, the inky blackness swallowing him. Connacht hears a rustle of cloth and the tinkle of beads, followed by silence.
Connaacht’s blood runs cold for a moment as the man calls him out by name. ”News travels fast in this town.” he says as Viorec steps inside.
A part of him would have been reassured had this man just mistaken him for an easy mark. That would have been easy to deal with, and it had been far to long since he’d put some miscrient in their place. He had half a mind to walk away from the building, but he wanted to see this though. It wouldn’t do to cause offense to a stranger on his first day here, especially not one as crafty as this one.
He enters the building, but his guard is up.
Connacht, wary, steps through the darkened doorway, not sure what to expect on the other side.
Inside the shack is dim, lit only by a few low burning lamps with heavily shaded window. Just inside the door is a small space, an entryway of sorts, with a solid wooden floor and walls. These are all painted with bright yellows and blues, muted in the dim light. There are hangings of silk and fabric from the rafters above, softening the space. While most of these are bright and airy, there is one that is a ring of six dulled clothes tied end to end placed in a area of prominence.
Various strange objects are arranged on the cluttered walls. Strange rocks, colorful jars full of liquid, carved idols of all types. Many looks quite forgien to Connacht, and are quite outside his own experience but it seems to speak of a life of travel and exploration in distant lands.
Among this crowded array is a simple wooden table, and two chairs on either side. Their is a beaded curtain, dully glittering, which hides most of the rest of the shack which Connacht guesses is larger then he first thought.
Viorec waves Connacht to sit then vanishes behind the beads with a sibilant rustle. The druid barely has time to sit before the man returns, holding a number of items. With a flourish he wordlessly sets them on the table in front of Connacht.
The first is a glass basin of clear water, which he sets a small chunk of metal, which looks like lead, next to.
Next was a large heavy candle, which looked very old and covered with rivulets and bubbles of melted wax. It is swirled with colors which dance in the dim light.
Last are a small pile of intricately carved dice, but instead of dotted numbers on the side, there are weird figures and shapes.
Viorec takes a seat, sharp face half lost in shadow. he waves a delicate, clever hand over the assembled items and says, "What calls to you?"
Connacht is in the middle of taking a seat and watches in silence as Viorec places the objects out on the table. He's a bit wary of the entire situation, but more curious than anything else.
Wouldn't someone who can see the future already know which one I'm going to choose? He muses to himself as he overlooks the objects. "ummm.... the candle. Let's go with the candle." He eventually decides after hesitating for a few moments. He shifts in his chair, filled with general unease at his present circumstances.
The shadowed face smiles mysteriously, eyes unreadable in the carefully controlled gloom. He shifts slightly in his chair and quickly removes the other objects, hands moving smoothly and quickly, almost dazzling the eye. It reminds Connacht of street magicians or shell games, yet far superior. This man, wherever he comes from, was trained in such matters.
"Interesting choice, follower of Erastil. Let us see what smoke and flame reveal..." With a flick of the wrist, a spark ignites the thick, black wick. A smell of burning tar mixed with a rich aroma of charred wood fills the room. The other, already dim lights in the room subside and fade away, leaving only the orange dancing flame. The walls, the beads, the floor vanish until all that remains is Viorec's face and hands against an abyss of blackness.
Viorec passes his hands back and forth, muttering in some tongue unknown to Connacht. yet the druid feels a strange thrill at the words, as if he can sense power behind them.
The flame dances and shifts colors from orange to red to bright blue. A thin stream of gray smoke drifts up, curling and uncurling. The man watches, dark eyes glittering in the changing light, hands constantly moving.
Connacht can see strange shapes and motions in both the flame and the smoke but it is hard to tell...
A chill goes up the Druid's spine as Viorec mentions his faith. Knothing he knows needed to have come from outside of the town. He had introduced himself as Connacht Metayer, he hadn't been shy about admitting his official status, and he had prayed at the shrine in the plaza outside the hostel.
But at this point, Connacht wasn't sure which possibility was more disconcerting. That Viorec was skilled enough in the arcane arts to see far enough into the future to know of his arrival and any pertinent details about him, or if he had purely mundane informants in Wheldrake.
Or both.
There was nothing to be done about the situation that lay before him beyond accepting it. And he did not want to make an enemy of the man before him. So he stays seated, and watches flickering flame and smoldering smoke alike for any portents it might foretell.
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Connacht scans the man's face, looking for a sign of his honesty, of his angle. The man is concentrating hard, face muscles frozen in effort as he mutters his arcane words. The solitary light shows every line on his face, every wrinkle, every scar throwing harsh shadows over his sharp eyebrows. What was artifice and was real? How much of this was a show to impress him and how much was true divination? Impossible to tell.
Connacht's sense however, feel sharpened by the incipient darkness. He can hear every sibilant syllable from Viorec's lips, every arcane word. The air felt heavy and humid on his heightened skin, as if he could feel every drop of water. When had the air grown so thick? The candle flame's crackle was clearly audible, the heat warm against his face. In his chest, Connacht could hear his own heart thudding faster, could truly feel the air in his lungs coming quick. The very blood in his veins seemed to race with anticipation and excitement.
Viorec pulls his hands away, still chanting his words of power. Slowly the flame turns a pale green, like a new leaf, while the smoke separates and curls into many columns. The strange fortune teller looks up, face lit from below, then breaks his chant.
"The Forest in your past, ah of course. Not uncommon, not for someone of your talents..." He moves his long fingers through the smoke, the trees waving like a forest in a sudden tempest. "But it was not peaceful. Death in your past, much violence."
The candle shades to red and the standing trees of smoke are edged with blood. They slowly fade away, the smoke lost in the blackness above. "Much was lost...."
The candle slowly changes softening to a bright yellow. "But you recovered and found much worth holding. Behind you lie things of value." The man's strange quick eyes looks at the smoke, which slowly resolves to make a very vague, human figure. "Someone you care about a great deal, they lie behind you, but not forgotten."
The candle flares again and the humanoid shape dissipates. In its place is a web of dark smoke, like that of a vast spiderweb, misshapen and intricate. It stretches in the darkness, reaching out, out...
Viorec smiles in the darkness, "The Web...you are the center of great things, but are you the spider or the fly? In either case it is beyond your control. Be wary...."
The smoke swirls away again, losing shape. The candle sputters but then catches again, a strong golden light. The fortune teller frowns, and stares at the indistinct fog, as if willing it to take shape. Slowly it does, the shifting smoke lit from below, looking like roving clouds. Gradually it forms a great arch, ornate and strong, worthy of the gods. Viorec's face is turned upward, staring at the imposing shape, gold light on his skin.
"The Great Door...but what does it mean? A journey? A nexus? Who can tell..."
Gradually the light dies and the arch breaks up. Then, Viorec locks eyes with Connacht, deep as black pits. "Do you ask a question of smoke and flame? Speak quickly, for the power is passing. I will do my best to coax and answer...." he waves his hands over the flames, returning to his strange chant.
So, it's the former then. Or something like that.
Every sense felt heightened, but and the Druid could nearly hear every single heartbeat resounding in his chest like a beating drum. The man felt as if he was entrapped by some disease, both shivering from the cold and burning from a feaver all at once.
He makes no attempt to mask his emotions. He knows full well he wouldn't stand a chance at success anyways.
He watches in an admixture of awe and horror as Viorec recounts the details of his past. Any doubt that the man was merely a charlatan had vanished by now as he spoke of things he had confirmed to few. He mourns his the past as it is recounted, and fears for the present as it is portrayed.
But the future. That, more than anything, fills him with a cold and silent dread, as the gentle flame is replaced by smoke and ash. What is this. What am I a part of? Who's using me as a pawn? The questions whirl through his mind as he tries to piece things together.
As the man asks him for a question, he realizes he's been holding his breath and inhales, and some semblance of clarity to return to his mind. And in that moment, he asks his question with more hope than he had ever dared to have on the issue in years. "How can I find my siblings?"
At once a wave of guilt washes over him. There were other questions he could have asked. He could have asked on Wessa's saftey, about who was the fly and who was the spider, what was this door. Hells, he could have at least asked about the bandits. But he had already spoken, and makes no effort to correct himself now.
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Viorec's eyes narrow in concentration, and he raises his hands, if trying to mold the shifting smoke. The darkness grows as the candle flickers, on the edge of going on. The fortune teller groans in effort, as if forcing the smoke, by sheer force of will to answer the question. For a long moment nothing happens and Connacht's hopes fade. Perhaps it all had been a show....
Then the candle comes to life, flaring brightly, a hot white bright enough to reveal the colored walls and wooden floor, harsh enough to make Conancht squint, half blinded. The smoke, not pure black, ripples and shifts forming some shape, and the fortune teller encourages it, muttering in every changing tongues. For one moment Connacht is sure he hears Druidic but the moment passes. Surely not...surely?
Then he lowers his hands, and the roiling smoke suggest a rushing river, a roaring cascade over rocks and falls."The Churning Stream.." Viorec says, eyes fixed on the portents. "Sign of inevitability...and danger. Beware Connacht Metayer, the future may not hold what you wish..."
Then his voice fades and the candle goes out completely, plunging the room into utter, profound blackness. Out of that sheer abyss Connacht hears a sound that surprises him. A rustling, animal sounds, of small feet on the wooden floor, followed by a series of squeaks. A rodent of some type?
Then Viorec laughs quietly in the dark. 'Yes, yes, I know."
The darkness fades, and the lamps slowly come back to life, revealing Viorec sitting at ease, a small gray weasel in his lap. The candle smokes gently, back to its mundane self, slightly shorter then before.
"So, did you gain wisdom from the Telling, Agent of Taldor? I, for myself, saw much in the signs given to us. A center of a tangled web..." His eyes look lost in thought, as he idly pets the animal in his lap.
.... what? What does that mean?
His hopes come crashing down a moment later as he sees the “future” layed out before him. What way was there for him to peace anything together about his siblings from that?
And the Druidic.... well. That was an issue for another day. There was no way to know if he actually heard that or not. Regardless, the entire incident had been disturbing. But nothing could be done about it now, the past was in the past.
But he needed to write this down. All of it. Just in case. And the only thing he had to write on was back at the hostel, with the rest of his gear.
”I believe so. You mentioned payment earlier?” He says with something of a haste in his voice. He had so, so many questions for the man. But all of those could wait. Time was of the essence, he didn’t want to forget the exact words of any of this. Who knows what it might be useful for?
Viorec looks across the table, the room still a dim gloom. The animal in his lap twists and turns, bright eyes glittering in the dark.
"I did indeed. And I promised it would be nothing you could not afford." The exotic man smiles hungrily and says, "As the Abadarans say, 'Payment due upon services rendered.'"
He lays his hand on the table, palm up. Connacht sees it is soft and smooth, oddly out of place in this rough and tumble town. The long fingers are graceful but look quite strong. There is a single ring, carved with worn runes.
"Your hand, please." Viorec says then grins again, "I promise to give it back."
In one piece? Connacht worries as he hesitates for a few moments before setting out his left hand before the fortune teller. ”I’ll hold you to that then. Here you go.” While his left hand is stretched out, his right hand has come to rest on the hilt of his gun. He doesn’t wish to use it... but should things come to that, the druid is ready for it.
A part of him chides himself for being silly. But it’s not every day he meets a man he can’t get any sort of read on at all. Better to stay cautious.
Connacht gets the feeling this man isn't interested in doing him harm, at least not yet. There is a sense of watchfulness, of wariness about the fortune teller, far more then Connacht expected. Was he a threat to this man in some way?
Viorec seizes Connacht's hand in a tight grip, quite stronger then the druid expected. The weasel hops onto the table, claws clicking against the bare wood. The fortune teller raises Connacht's hand, palm upward, and leans over as if to sniff it. Then, with a quick reaction as quick as a snake, bites the soft flesh at the base of Connacht's callused thumb. A brief flash of mild pain, a squirt of red and then Connacht's hand is released from the vice.
Viorec leans back, dabbing his lips with a multi-colored handkerchief, eyes twinkling. Despite his apparent ease, Connacht gets the sense of tension here too. He isn't the only one ready for violence if things 'come to that'.
"Now see, that wasn't so bad." His eyes linger on the tiny wound, a small puncture in Connacht's skin where a bit of blood oozes out. "I can heal it for you, if you like." He adds, nodding to the minor wound.
The moment Connacht's hand is released the lawman recoils from the man and clutches his hand. "Ahhhhhh... what in the hells is your deal?"He looks at Viorec with a mixture of revulsion and mostly confusion.
I guess I was right about the one piece thing. He shakes his head at the offer of healing. "I hope you forgive me if I choose to decline your hospitality. I trust that our business here is concluded?" He asks as he nods his head in the fortune teller's general direction and heads out of the building, the question clearly rhetorical.
The center of the web, the spider and the fly... as he walks out of the building, his mind is focused on the fortune told to him moments ago as he makes his way back to the hostel, trying to remember the details and pushing out of the event, and for the time pushing the aside the issue of just what exactly it may have cost him.
Connacht's mind is a muddy mess as he makes his way back to the center of town. Either Viorec is from a very exotic place or the druid's mind is just confused, because he can't place the man's tattoos or other hints to his origin. Maybe someone else in town might know?
As Connacht moves through town, mind busy, his senses as usual are keen. The sun is setting now, out of sight behind the ridge of hills that encircle the town. Shadows are long and indistinct, hazing toward dusk.
Signs of life in Wheldrake pick up as the oppressive heat fades into a pleasant warmth. People are out and about, moving between houses, visiting neighbors, children playing games. Connacht notes men heading into town from the surrounding hills, looking weary from a day of labor. A few hold hoes and rakes, the signs of farmers. Perhaps there are pockets of greenery hidden in the dry, bare hills? But more are carrying shovels, buckets and picks. Miners?
Some of these come home to small homes, with wives waiting on the doorstep with children running up. It makes Connacht's Erastil heart gladden to see his domestic aspect. But most men return to quiet empty homes or rowdy collections of single men.
More then a few are heading to the one noteworthy place in town Connacht hasn't made time for yet. The wildly painting, rounded building. Whatever is there, it must be pleasant as the men (and a few women) heading for it are laughing or telling jokes.
Connacht does his best to take in the sights and sounds of the town as nightfall approaches, but his mind is in too much of a haze to go focus on much besides the fortune he had just been told. His mind did his best to sort out the pieces of the puzzle that had just been set out before him, but to little avail.
Any other night, he would have taken the moment to try and strike up a few conversations with locals. Any other night, he would have found out what the painted building was and why people went to it at this hour (although he had his guesses). But all of that could wait for another sunset, and for now he simply wishes to return to the hostel with all due haste. He needed to write this down, while it was still fresh in his mind.
... and where on earth did he learn Druidic? Connacht continues his musing and speculation as he strides along the desert roads of Wheldrake at a brisk pace. Foot after foot he steps forward, and implication after implication goes through his mind. The sounds of the happy crowd fades away in the growing darkness.
Connacht finds the caravansari without trouble despite his wandering thoughts. It is full night as he enters the slightly ruined building, his sharp sense guiding him around piles of fallen bricks and crumbling walls. Thankfully no one bothers him on the way to his room, as Connacht is in no mood for talk, mind still churning at the strange fortune telling. What did it mean?
His room is warm and a cheery fire is burning in the old grate. Trenzi, or someone else, has also done up a small simple cot as well as laid fresh rushes on the floor. Considering his sleeping arrangements on the road for the last few weeks (sleeping on the cold hard ground), the humble bedroom looks heavenly. Lathir is waiting for him, hair tense. Clearly he sensed the druid's emotional turmoil, upsetting the wolf. He whines slightly and puts his massive head on Connacht's lap
The druid turns to his book and writes down as much as he can recall of the strange event. The shifting lights, the egnmatic words, and he even traces out a crude version of Viorec's tattoos. After recording as best he can, the druid climbs into bed and gets some well deserved rest.
His dream is troubled, full of dark and twisting dreams. A voice calling to him through the shrouds, what was it?
"Hello?" Conancht awakes with a start as someone taps the door to his room. A high, youthful voice says from the other side, "Hello, are you awake Master Agent?"
Connacht kicks the dirt off his boots as he returns to his room in the Hostel, taking a moment to stretch and relax. Before heading over the the desk and jotting down what he could remember.
"I don't understand it either boy." The agent speaks to his wolf while absentmindedly scratching his head behind the ears.
It's not long after he finishes writing that he crawls into bed and is sound asleep.
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Connacht was never a soft sleeper, as his duties as a guard sometimes necessitated a swift awakening to deal with some issue that arose at night. With that said, being exhausted from travel, it takes the druid a bit longer then normally to rouse himself. The dream helped with that, as it wasn't exactly anything he wanted to entertain for anymore than he was currently doing.
Now I am He thinks to himself as he rubs his eyes and rolls out of bed, nearly stepping on Derwin's tail before catching himself. He takes a quick moment to glance out a window in his room so he can guess the time of day, and then heads on over to the door. "What is it?" He says while he swings open the door, doing little to hide the fact that he just woke up from anyone on the other side.
No rest for the ethical. The more things change... As usual, the internal commentary is kept internally.
Connacht opens the door, mind still slightly blurry from sleep. On the other side is a boy, with a head of curly brown hair. Squinting at him Connacht sees a trace of family resemblance to Trenzi, the officious keeper of the caravan hostel.
"My uncle told me to come by and see if you needed anything. He also told me to tell you that he would be honored if you shared breakfast with him." His voice is high and pure, but uneducated. Then he spots Derwin inside, the massive wolf looking with interest.
The boy takes a step back, eyes widening in fear."That's a wolf!" he nearly shouts, taking another step back.
”Aye, breakfast would be swell. I’ll be ready in a minute.” Connacht says to the young boy, his stomach hungering for a decent meal. He’s about to close the door to his room as the boy lets out his cry of fright.
”Ah, you don’t need to worry about Derwin!”[b] He says, the boy’s fright serving to wake him up a bit more. He gestures for the wolf to take a seat for a moment while continuing to talk to the boy. [b]”He’s as well trained as any pup, and harmless to well behaved lads such as yourself.”
”Now, give me just a moment, and I’ll be right back.” He says, closing the door. He takes a few moments to get a few of his things together, throw on some nice clothing than sleep ware, and return his bed to something resembling proper order before leaving the room again; now in slightly better form and marginally more awake than he was before.
”Now, would you mind introducing yourself? Name’s Connacht.” He offers his hand out to the boy to shake.
The young boy keeps a wary eye on the wolf. When Connacht says 'well behaved lad', the boy's hands nervously squeeze, with a flicker of concern on his smooth face. Trenzi's relative may not be the charming and innocent boy he appears to be. Connacht makes a mental note to keep an eye on the lad.
The boy takes Connacht's hand as the druid reappears after changing.
"Felix." he says carefully, keeping an eye on Derwin.
He leads Connacht into the half ruined warren of the caravanseri with practiced ease. After many twists and turns, they arrive at a wooden door which looks freshly scrubbed. Felix opens it and steps aside to let Connacht in.
The dining room on the other side is small but well appointed. There is a thick if worn carpet on the floor, woven with the Taldane Imperial coat of arms. The walls are painted, gilded with real but peeling gold. A small window looks out at the enclosed courtyard of the building, with the still fountain. A faint air of mothballs and mildew fill the space, as if it is normally shut up tight.
A small round table sits in the middle of the room, with a healthy breakfast of bread, oil and ham. A few bowls of porridge are steaming, as well as a small side plate of cheese. Conancht gets the feeling this is extravagant as far as breakfasts go in Wheldrake.
Sitting on the far side is Trenzi, thankfully not wearing the ridiculous wig. he is wearing rather formal robes however, faded and worn from long used (probably family heirlooms, Connacht realizes).
He rises as Connacht enters the room."Ah, Agent Connacht. Thank you for joining me." He half bows and indicates the sole other chair, "Please sit. Did you rest well?"
Connacht can’t help but smirk a bit at the boys slight worry about being a “good lad”. He doubted whatever the child was worried about was particularly serious. Still ,he did make a note to keep an eye on the lad. Just in case.
”Tell me, anything a stranger like myself ought to know about this town Felix”? He had asked the question several times before, but it never hurt to have a second opinion. Or fourth or fifth opinion, at the rate he was going.
”Thanks for the help lad.”He says to the young boy as he moves through the door he opens into the dining hall. ”And thank you for the invitation, Prefect Trenzi.” Connacht responds with a half bow of his own before as he goes to take a seat. ”Yes, the rest in a bed was quite welcome after spending weeks out on the road. Your hospitality is most appreciated.” With that, he starts in on the breakfast unless it seems that the Prefect has some business he wishes to discuss first.