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Gozran 24, Imix, Oios and Naira
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"Never." admitted Imix reluctantly. "It does bear some familiarity though. Did you find this in the water? How go your investigations? Have you learned anything?"
"In Thom's home, the fireplace I believe." On her investigation, Naira shrugged. She made discoveries, yes, but what she didn't yet know still frightened her. "The taint is not of this world, they may have their own sorceress responsible for it. I'm not certain if I can undo it, so much as manage or contain it."
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Gozran 25, Imix and Naira
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The wood begins to break apart with Naira's touch. She targets the boats' propulsion and steering first. "Better message would be making a display out of your Garrison-Captains and the Skinstealers. Let them know those tricks won't work any longer." The wood warps, splintering as she tries to riddle the boats with small, easily sealable holes.
Naira smiles. The praise lifted her spirits, though she wouldn't show it without a joke. "'Boatbreaker.' Another title! Pachi will hate it when I tell her. Let us return, and if I tire, then I'll allow you to carry me."
The sorceress returned to the water, and with a spin, it began to storm. "Suriname," she calls out, head bobbing, "lead the way!"
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The walls sweated that day, and you ran your finger along them absently as you walked down a hall, head swiveling, mind racing in awe of the accumulated knowledge scrawled all around you. Generation upon generation, fact upon fact, until, in a way, a metaphor, a mound - the Three Peoples' knowledge - was encompassing you. For one of the few times in your young life, you felt small.
A sharp pain brought you out of your reflection; a jagged bit of wall, where a carving had been made. Sucking on your bleeding finger, you read the words that stuck you, carved long ago by some unnamed Suriname:
417. A foriegn place found 417.8.12, under the floodplain 572 miles due southwest of Cornucopia. Funerary barrow, workshop, abandoned. Carvings on the wall, runes, but also images. Squat peoples, bearded. Strange weapons. Workshop had large kiln of exact purpose unknown. Images depict squat people at work, making weapons. Buildings. Great ships. Also, roads. Spent two weeks in the barrow. Translated a few runes. People, , Mynyth Darohm. Place, , Ahalem Mynon. 142819.05 Place, , Eldeleth Keherim, the long spires. 2998538.6.
Mother Hunger warily approaches Imix, nose in the air, sniffing. Invading his personal space, the wolf circles the Suriname, head raising and lowering, sniffing the whole time. A few minutes pass, and then Mother Hunger sits back on her haunches. "Yes, you smell different than the others. I've never met one of your kind, though I've heard of you. I understand you're responsible for the Nargun's rampage? Tell me, how do you talk to the Nargun?"
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Had Imix hair, it would bristle as the wolf comes all too close. The primal dominance of Alpha is in the air. Still, Imix holds his temper and his tongue.
"One does not talk to the Nargun. One runs, or one fights. Since the earliest days of the Empire, the Nargun roamed the lands. Hard as stone, and able to burrow out of any trap, the Nargun were a threat to the Peoples."
"Their destruction is to be avoided. Lore says a Nargun was destroyed by a hero in the earliest days. Dozens gathered to the site of the destruction. Gathered, and sought Vengeance. Each destruction brought more Nargun - or split the Nargun, the old words are vague."
"Then the Suriname Ixchix discovered that while the Nargun were powerful, they were vulnerable to water. Water lulled them to sleep and, over time, eroded them."
"The war was glacial in its pace. Nargun would strike every century or so, destroying whole villages and moving on. Engineers would lead forces out to their nests, dig channel and flood them. Dig traps they then flooded with water."
"One such battle was fought near here. I remembered the site. I went out, and used my power. I raised the Nargun from the water, set them upon the land. They awoke. They woke angry. I fled into the water, and they looked for something to take their anger out on."
He bares teeth in a grin that had little to do with amusement "With luck the Barbarians will destroy one, and bring upon themselves a devastation of Nargun."
He looked the wolf in the eye. "Understand what we fight. This is the First Flame. In the past it has come, and gone. Flickered like its namesake. This time though..." he turns to Naira "Show her the egg Boatbreaker. Tell her where it was found, and what else we found there."
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Gozran 26, High Hall
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The colour drains from Oios' face. Te-Moak is fallen as well? Is Shadeholme the only bastion left of the Three Peoples? He shakes his head. Do you know if there are any survivors from Te-Moak or any of the cities or towns or villages? Fleeing as refugees or the like? Or are we the last?
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Gozran 26, High Hall
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Istiel stoically observes the conversation between Imix and Mother Hunger. It wasn't obvious, but she was glad the Suriname was here to make sense of all this strange talk.
Hazel eyes turn back to Oios, and her voice is wooden. "I do not know. We saw only Frozen patrols. Occupied towns. However, I am confident Cornucopia still stands." A small amount of desperation creeps into her words, eyes hardening to bury despair at the alternative. "It must."
Happy holidays everyone!
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Gozran 26, High Hall
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Mother Hunger snorts, almost human-like, and runs her long tongue over her teeth, before responding to the Suriname. "The Nargun were only a threat because you didn't talk with them. None of your gods treat with them. Your people view the world as challenges to overcome, nothing more. Still, it is better than your neighbors."
Eyeing the eggshell before giving herself a vigorous shake, the wolf steps backwards, nostrils flaring. "Can't you smell it? It is unnatural! Best not keep that thing here!"
"My mother told me, as did her mother before her, that the Great Cataclysm was no act of the gods. It was an act of the Eldeleth, caused by a great and burning affliction that gripped its people and burned, like a slow-spreading fire, for generations."
Turning to Oios, the wolf yawns. "There have been your people moving through the woods, in all directions. We let them pass through. There's no fun in hunting the injured and afflicted."
Last, those yellow eyes fall on Istiel, staring into the monk's eyes behind her mask. "Cities in the forest? No. My people used it mostly for logging, and settlements were mobile and temporary. There would be barrows for the important, felled far from their homes. Perhaps covered under centuries of growth a shrine or small temple. But we abandoned this part of the world when my people went into retrenchment."
"The closest great city would be Ahalem Mynon to the east. If you have a map, I could show you generally where. There were more cities to the east and to the south. The Eldeleth's perfect towers were to the south, in what is now a land of what your people call Beastlings. Again, I could show you roughly where."
"Eldeleth Keherim, the long spires" says Imix softly, as if quoting. A second later he starts. "like a slow burning fire, you said. The First Flame?"
He bows again to the great wolf, and starts again "You may be right, Mother Hunger. Our legends do not even recount that the Nargun had a language. If you speak it, I would know it. Even a simple sentence such as 'we are here in peace' might be sufficient. If the Nargun can be reasoned with then the Empire can..." he catches himself "could... we can perhaps avoid further hostility. Perhaps the slumbering Nargun can even be reawakened. If we are not to have this land, I would rather see it in Nargun hands than the Flame's."
"The Eggshell is what we face. I fear they are doing something to the land. If they caused the cataclysm, then who is to say they are not doing something equally as destructive."
He looks around at the others "While I would see Shadeholme safe, if such an event is being planned by the Flame, then stopping it should be our first priority."
"Perhaps a clue can be found at Eldeleth Keherim as to what happened to the Eldeleth. A clue that might help us stop a reoccurrence."
He shakes his head slowly from side to side. "Forgive me the unnecessary tangent, honoured guest. Have you spoken to Suriname before? Is - was - the Empire aware of the knowledge you bear?"
"My order's charge was simply to wait our people's return, and act as a historian, and if need be, ambassador at that time. I have not spoken to a Suriname before, Suriname. I would think you are the first to speak to my people, ever, in fact. And that honor would not have happened if I'd not seen the Nargun rampage with my own eyes."
"Ons kom in vrede. We come in peace. In the Nargun's tongue."
Imix gave a sour smile.
A moment later he continues
"I would be interested in any knowledge you have of the rampage. And I am glad to hear it. I would hope that if there were any knowledge of a civilisation of giant speaking wolves, I would have been made aware."
Maps... Oios mutters. The Engineer would have had maps. Let us retrieve them so we may plot our next move. The past is not as interesting to me as the present and future at the moment I fear.
Oios takes a moment to turn his divination ability on Mother Hunger to see where it's loyalties truly lie.
Another question... is Shadeholme surrounded by the Frozen?
Istiel nods, sitting up in her chair. "Our people need a place to hide until the Frozen can be chased out of our lands. Ahalem Mynon may provide the shelter we seek. You said the entrance was collapsed. But still we must try."
The monk thinks for a moment longer. "We have no word of Cornucopia yet. We could go there. Yet, they struggled to provide for people as it was. Many will be fleeing there. We will be better on our own."
Her head briefly swivels to Imix to explain. "Mother Hunger is no wolf. A Dendarim. Shapeshifter. Ranger of the wilds. Originally a creature called "Mynyth Darohm". These Mynyth Darohm ruled this land from below before Damallah brought us here." A single scarred and callused hand waves dismissively. "There is much history I can tell you later. If Mother Hunger does not tell you."
The monk resumes her crossed-arm stance and speaks to Mother Hunger. "I do not know what you want. If anything. But we will offer it for assistance in the relocation of Shadeholme. I also do not want to interfere with your duty. But should your people return a year from now they will either be talking to us or fighting the Frozen. Your actions alone could change this. Perhaps they already have."
"Aye," Mother Hunger says, her form slowly shifting, fluid, like a placid river, "I am a wolf and not-wolf. I am a Dendarim and a Mynyth Darhom, and not either."
Pulling a chair from the table, Mother Hunger lifts a tick from his chest and plops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "I smelled the blood from the Nargun's rampage before I saw them. Following the scent merely out of curiousity, soon the sounds of panic reached my ears, and lastly, the Frozen fleeing in all directions reached my eyes. THe Nargun were punishing. Many fell, more fled. I followed, the Nargun paid me little heed, for our races have a long friendship, and they have longer memories. Then, a woman - an old crone - strode from the woodline and waved her hands, and the Nargun fell asleep once more. I felt it best to leave the presence of such a powerful creature. And so I did."
Turning to the fireplace, long dormant, Mother Hunger grabs a cup and ladles himself a helping of mate. Tipping the cup back, the Darhom's face pinches. He smacks his lips, sticks his tongue out. "Awful."
His eyes narrow as Oios presents his holy symbol. "Surrounded yes, I think so. A large camp, many hundreds, in the woods to the east. A smaller one to the west. More on the roads, some on the mound to the north, and others work in the woods to the south and west, felling trees, and going through your farms and houses."
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Pulling back from the table, Mother Hunger makes for the doorway. ”If you need to talk, have a guard give five long blows into a horn, followed by three short ones. I’ll be around.”
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Dawn comes, and with it, a call from the palisade guard. Shapes in the rain, beyond the bridge. First, your guards point out a handful, then more and more, until the pavilion is packed. Across the bridge, one large shape moves, as if a monstrous snake, or as it gets closer, a giant centipede. It crosses the canal and begins, slowly, laboriously, wending its way up the ghats.
You stand and watch with the guards from the palisade walls, as it comes into view - a long birch trunk, stripped of limbs, 40 or 50 feet in length, with many people tied to it.
Your people. They struggle up the ghats under the weight of the birch trunk, ragged and weak. Some you know - Marga and Otto Sache, the chasqui Salty, farmers and hunters and trappers. Notably, there are three people, all women, that you don’t recognize.
First, stooped under the weight of the log, comes a woman of middle age, tall and dark complected, almost nearly as dark as the Tooyahs Korya and Ogwe, but dressed like a rural Tkoyah; that is to say sensibly, if a bit conservatively. She wears a brown blouse, with a grey skirt. As she draws closer, you see that her silken blouse was once white, but it is now streaked with mud and filth. Her skirt, made of wool, has held up a bit better. The woman shuffles, obviously in shock, her gaze distant, her feet unsteady.
Tied behind her, a Tooyah woman, young, and barely conscious. Her head hangs limply, thick bruises stretched around the woman’s neck, and her scraped shins bump against the ghat steps as the group moves forwards, leaving streaks of blood as she goes.
She is a slightly-built young woman, no older than early 20s. Her dark skin and her clothing both mark her as Tooyah, and a particularly rural one at that: her clothing is cut in a style that went out of fashion decades ago in Cornucopia, and her hair is covered with a headscarf (signifying her unmarried status), which no Tkoyah or Tsinyah girls have done for generations. A set of intricate tattoos on her left arm mark her as a member of the priesthood to anyone familiar with the Tooyah approach to religion.
The third woman is the oldest, at least 70 winters, and pale complected. She's dressed in layered furs and pelts, fox, deer, wolf. Her feet are wrapped in snug moccasins. Her face is lined and kindly. Her eyes are blue, like a cloudless midday sky. Her hair also evokes the sky; cloudy grey like a rainy dawn morning. Obviously a Frozen, she peers through the rain, taking in your people perched on the palisade with an alert and appraising look.
To the side of the birch prisoner’s log, the Frozen walk, bows strung, pointed at the prisoners. Fifty savages walk with the prisoners, wearing coarse armor of many different hides stitched together with red rope. They move with confidence and unity, a well-trained group. Obivously, they are no mere raiders.
At the front of the savages, their leader walks. He’s tall, though most Frozen are. The man is dressed in a hide cuirass similar to his soldiers, with an important distinction; the front carries religious iconography, etched with acid: an eye surrounded by a winged flame, tied with rope.
The leader’s helmet is created from the broken skull of some great fanged creature, the maw of which acts a cage obscuring and protecting the man’s face. His boots and breeches are of fine black leather and well made. Strapped to his back is a wicked curved blade of beaten copper.
Behind the men, on the pavilion, hundreds more shapes stand in the rain, watching.
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The leader holds a hand up to stay his men, while a command is barked out for the prisoners’ benefit. ”Halt!”
Turning and looking up to you, the man removes his helmet and runs a hand through his hair, a tousled red mop that falls down over his forehead and ears. The man’s features are boyish; he looks little older than a teenager. His most striking features are his eyes, colored a green as brilliant as the Palenque Green in Cornucopia, freshly watered. If the man’s hair and eyes are decidedly of the Mountain Tribes, the man’s complexion is purely Tkoyah - bronzed and sun-kissed.
”We don’t care about you. We don’t care what you do with your short lives, who you worship, where you go from here. But you can’t stay here. More tribesmen are on their way. One way or another, you’ll be leaving Shadeholme. Whether or not you leave through your crossroads or on your feet is the decision of your leader.”
His eyes turn to Oios, a brief look of distaste passing the man’s placid face. ”I’m here to offer you a bittersweet treat, before I offer you the cudgel. You will all be granted safe passage from Shadeholme for one week. None of the forces in the Towering Wood will attack you, as long as they are treated the same. You will be given back your defeated.” The man waves his hand at the prisoners.
”In return, we will take Shadeholme, and your high priest. I understand that this is difficult, and your people are in need of spiritual guidance. We give you another priest in exchange.” Again, the man waves his hand, this time in the direction of the unconscious Tooyah woman.
Telowo turns to you, his eyes wide, as the man continues. ”This is the best offer you will get. I hope your leader makes the right decision.” The man looks away from Oios and takes in the crowds gathered on the palisade. ”If he doesn’t, I suggest you get a new leader.”
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Imix pauses, then laughs - a deep, rich laugh. Incongruous in the situation, it echoes out amongst the rain unaccompanied.
"Beautiful!" he booms. "Brilliant! Your strategies are elegant, ruthless and inspired. You do not know how much we know, so you weave layers upon layers. Let me see..." Imix raises a hand in his habitual gesture and holds up fingers as he counts "First, if your skinwalkers have taken leadership they can simply agree! Second, if accident has killed your agents you can send who knows how many! Third if we do not know we stand alone, you offer us the chance to flee, as if there was somewhere to flee too! Fourth you ask something small, but that would turn us against the Gods, when the Gods are the only hope to stop the Flame from coming into our world. Fifth, you offer us mouths we can't feed, and bodies too weak to fight or flee!" Imix applauds.
"I would continue the analysis, but I fear too much information would leave you too bored to continue these beautiful stratagems of yours!"
He smiles crookedly, and chants in Wo'Tah for a second.
Drazan scans the horizon of soldiers and prisoners alike, speaking for Oios to hear. Perhaps its best you let them take everything by force and gain nothing instead? If they come to negotiate and speak terms, for these peoples sake, offer to speak terms with them. Don't let a Suriname throw their lives away on hasty decisions.
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Istiel is one of the first on the palisade when the guards call out the massed forms off in the distance. As people gather around her and more forms coalesce off in the rain, she stands ready to face whatever comes next. We may fall today. But I will take hundreds with me. Is a grim thought among many. The monk knows they cannot hold against another huge attack, and prepares herself for a deadly battle.
Confusion swirls at the appearance of the centipede-like monster approaching in the distance, and for a brief flicker the monk hopes it is some kind of monster to slay, something to truly seal her glory and complete her tenant before death.
Thus, the surprise at the assembled captives is met with a mixture of disappointment and anger, and her hands clench at her sides. They represented her failure- she wasn't able to protect these people, now a walking monument of shame.
The speech that follows from the red-haired man produces a predictable response from Istiel. Anger. Her hands reach up to the palisade spikes and grip it. If the wood was half an inch thinner it would have splintered from the overwhelming pressure in her grasp. The gall of the Frozen to offer them a route of escape offended her. It was too easy. There was no glory, and she mused over challenging the red-haired man to single combat so she could decapitate him with his own decadent sword in front of his troops even if it meant her own death under a hail of 50 arrows. It was the assured death of all Shadeholme due to her actions that bothered her most.
But what happened next was not her decision. That duty belonged to Oios, and she knew he would choose wisely, for the good of Shadeholme.
Istiel listens to Imix's response, trusting his analysis is correct. The Frozen had them in such a terrible position it did not matter what they did. The only question that bothered her is why the Frozen did not simply attack and take the town. But that was not the question she asked, and the monk shouts down simply-
"Who are you?"
The man scowls as Imix speaks to him in the Woh'tah's tongue. He says simply, "I am Ashkesh. There are no tricks here. Take your people and go. Wherever. Or stay and be starved and overrun. I'll need a decision. Make the smart one."
Istiel leans between one of the gaps in the palisade, towards the assembled group. Her voice is powerful and full of unwavering commitment. Though slow, every sentence punctuated with complete sincerity. The monk's words are a promise, not a threat. "Thank you for this, Ashkesh. I am Istiel. One day I will kill you. Your men. Your masters. May you live long off our suffering until I find you again."
She leans back and crosses her arms over her chest, silently awaiting Oios' decision.
"Hmmm. Are you open to negotiation?" Imix asks lightly "How much for just handing over Shadeholme? I imagine you're quite keen to be able to re-purpose the forces your siege requires. And your food situation will soon be as bad as ours - we know the land is being poisoned. You can only eat slaves for so long before your forces turn on each other."
Oios turns to Telow and grasps him on the shoulder and looks him in the eye. They've known each other for a long time. He murmurs so only Telowo can hear What do you think of this, old friend?
Red blushing creeps up Ashkesh's bronze face as he's insulted by yet another of Shadeholme's unbreakables. "I look forward to the day you try, monk. As for you," he says, turning to the Suriname,
"Enough!" It is the old woman who speaks, as she slips the knots of her bonds, and wobbles, somewhat unsteadily, towards Ashkesh. "You've always been too rash, Ashkesh."
"The one with small eyes and a big mouth raises an important point."
"Still, you did kill our champion. We'll need... compensation for that wrong act."
The woman stands in front of Ashkesh, much shorter than the man, who glares at you over her grey head of hair, as the woman continues, paying him no further mind.
"One of your children, Suriname Imix, and half your food."
Telowo turns to Oios, his eyes unfocused. What? No... not children. I'll go, old friend." Raising his hand and placing it on the Shadow's shoulder, Telowo takes his other hand, gripping his staff, and shoves into Oios' grasp. "Take my staff, my friend. It has served me well over the years, and has seen generations of ritual. It will be valuable in the days - and perhaps years - to come."
Wide-eyed, the priest looks out into the rain, at the horde of barbarians at the gates.
Oios keeps his grip firm on Telowo's shoulder and looks for the Excise-Head. What is the state of our food stocks? How much would all of it feed and for how long? And what of half of it? he keeps his voice low.
Tex approaches at Oios' beckoning, her brow furrowed. "Two months, roughly, not taking into account them." The Excise-Head gives a small nod of her head towards the defeated tied to the birch log.
Compensation in war? Let them come take it and die trying. They clearly want to starve us. Both choices they give so far strain Shadeholmes already meager food stores. Give this Ashkesh nothing. Drazan says providing his likely unheeded council to the agreed leader Oios.
Istiel simply nods to Ashkesh, looking forward to the day she can exact justice for his transgressions. She turns her head to Oios. "I agree with Drazen. Give them nothing. If not, Noble Telowo has volunteered to save countless others. We take our longships. Food. Supplies. Go east. I am loathe to abandon my home. Yet, our traditions are in our people. Not in a place."
We have killed... quite a few of yours Oios says neutrally Which 'champion' in particular draws such ire from you?
The old woman clasps her hands in front of her and smiles. "Ire? No, no, that's not the right word. We mourn the loss of our silkwood tender."
He was ours before he was yours. Oios counters And the nature of his... change.. is known to us all. We would not want any one other of ours to experience it as I am sure you can understand. And we mourn each of our own as much as you mourn what Thom became. Oios looks around at the crowd and tries to sense how they feel. It occurs to me that until now us here in Shadeholme have been destroying and killing quite a few of your agents and relics that must have been of much value to you. We will agree to put aside our yearning of justice and vengeance and stop ferreting out any other of your agents that may be among us in exchange for your free passage and the return of the captives. As a token of our good faith we will leave behind a tenth of the food that the people of this town planted and grew and harvested with their good labour.
"Your silkwood tender?!" Istiel explodes, her voice booming from the pallisade as she returns to leaning between the spikes.
"Thom. Our silkwood tender. Transformed into an ABOMINATION by YOUR Flame. YOUR magics. I ripped the gnashing head from his body to spare him from another moment of wretched existence!" The monk is becomingly increasingly agitated, and looks ready to jump down to strangle Ashkesh and the old woman- a neck for each hand.
She rages behind an emotionless mask, names spit through gritted teeth. "Thom. Halton Gilders. Matla Tolita. Alma Slate. Hemlock. Alto. Countless others taken. Because of your greed. And you speak of compensation. Take the wood. The dirt. But no more of our people."
As you can see Oios says tonelessly; his face a mask, as he transfers his grip from Telowo to Isitel to keep her from leaping down alone. There are many here who would rather fight to the last man and woman rather than give any ground at all. To burn Shadeholme to the ground to deny you your spoils. I believe we have demonstrated our ability to do so quite well. Restraining this very understandable impulse will not be easy for us.
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Gozran 26, High Hall
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Naira listened to Imix’s tale, and held her tongue. When addressed as “Boatbreaker,” silence filled the room, until the Undine realized the Suriname was speaking of her. Naira pulled the fragments of the black egg from her bag, holding the shards out for any to see. “In what remained of the Silkworm Tender’s teanto. It was shattered when we found it nearby a grove corrupted by wicked magicks.”
The Undine placed the eggshell back within her backpack. “Nothing of our circumstance seems natural. Still, I will dispose of it,” she lied, intent on keeping it despite Mother Hunger’s warning.
Naira builds on Imix’s statement on the egg: “They corrupt more than our land. Our water, our people.” When the shifter had left, the Engineer left to find a map for her to mark. While she had her own maps of the valley, perhaps the engineers of Shadeholme had maps with information her own did not.
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Gozran 27, Pallisade
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The sorceress was silent as negotiations began. So many would live for just the life of the priest. The town as well would be lost, but already they were planning the escape. This could be a chance, possibly their only one. As much as she wanted everyone to survive, it wasn’t her call to make. The life or death of these people was Shadeholme’s decision to make, not hers.
Naira eyed the hundreds that watched from beyond the walls. "They have prisoners, time, and numbers. Yet, they negotiate." The Undine was perplexed. No tricks, he said, but the Undine couldn't bring herself to think that was true. She spoke plain, rain dripping from face, speaking to the old woman. "You speak of compensation: Your kind took the lives of Engineers from Te Moak, innocents. What of the debt owed for their lived?""
Oios speaks again.
You ask us to go into exile. Give up our land and homes and go into an unknown future in some unknown land; Forced to this by your aggression and invasion. We may do so. You ask for us to sacrifice a child or our priest as well. This form of tyranny is not our way. But since you wish for people here is our counter offer. Any of our people that you can convince to stay in Shadeholme to be ruled over by you will be allowed to remain behind and we will leave behind their portion of our food-stores for you to use as you see fit. Three days we will prepare to leave and your leaders may come among us to make your case. Know that I, at least, will speak against it, and I am certain the other leaders will as well. We will leave it up to the free choice of Shadeholmers.
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Gozran 26, High Hall
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Mother Hunger's busy eyebrows raise, and then he scowls, staring at Naira and pulling on his beard. "You best do that, girl. It would be unwise to keep it."
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Gozran 27
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The soldiers, like Istiel, seem taut, full of rage, and ready to explode. Perhaps they would even welcome it, regardless of your sure defeat. When you decline the barbarian's offer, the Lady Bellet scowls and leans in to whisper in her guards-captain, Antuk's ear.
The old woman doesn't miss a beat, nodding to Oios, ignoring the other questions and curses thrown her way. "Very well. We accept your terms - under two conditions. One: you are welcome to take whatever you can with you, but you leave everything else for us, untouched. Two, you let us host your High Priest. He will be as our guest, for the three days you need to prepare your leavings. We will return him, unharmed, when you leave Shadeholme, and Eel Mound's condition is confirmed as, how do you say it, unmolested?"
Imix interjects "So we hand over someone, you give us nothing, and we trust that in three days you'll hand him back over? That requires a significant amount of trust on our part. You could simply walk away with half of your demands ten minutes from now."
He turns to Oios and speaks quietly - though loudly enough for others on the wall to hear.
"Any deal should include knowing how far they claim. Claim - not hold. There's no point in us leaving, only to face them next spring."
Istiel continues to watch and listen, gripping the palisade. The monk had been ignored up until now, but she means to be heard this time. "If we agree I will go as well. I will ensure Telowo remains untouched."
The woman watches the monk and the Suriname with great interest, her head cocked, her mouth in a flat line. Impatiently, she becons to a nearby Frozen, and he produces a knarled wooden walking stick, which the woman grasps and raps the tip of into the sodden earth for emphasis. "Fair enough. Ashkesh and ten of his honor guard will stay with you while the priest and the monk stay with us."
"Why?" asks Imix, bluntly "Why this fixation on the priest? We've any number of equally valuable hostages we could trade. And do not think that I have not noticed you are all too ready to take the Monk who killed your champion, when moments ago you demanded vengeance."
Silent, Istiel observes the old woman. Was she meant to infiltrate us, tied to the log? The woman with the demon's deal... If I could posess your sight now, Master.
The monk is ready to leave at any time, the thick jute sack filled with her meager belongings slung over her left shoulder.
On the palisade, Istiel feels a tentative hand atop her shoulder. Turning her head, she finds Suuha, his face and head covered with unshaven hair. The monk frowns slightly and sighs, suspecting he knows the answer before he asks the question. "Ist, you sure you want to do this? That's beyond dangerous."
Down on the ghats, the woman shrugs, all the agititation from just a few seconds ago vanishing into the rain. "The monk inserted oneself into our negotiations, we didn't ask for this. I am merely trying to reach a... how you would say, compromise. I wouldn't send Ashkesh into your den if I felt this would end in violence."
"As for your priest, I would talk with him about matters of faith." The woman waves dismissively at the Tooyah woman, slumped and unconscious. "We have one, but she is youg, merely a lay priest, and of a different tradition. She's also been, I don't know the word, exactly, thorny. But since you are so reluctant, I offer yet another - and final - counter. We will take the monk in exchange for Ashkesh. Then he will pick 'an equally valuable' hostage from your people. You in return can pick one of your defeated tied here to this tree, for release to your care at that time."
A ruckus goes up from the crowd along the palisade. Names murmured, then shouted, in your direction - family, spouses, children; names of those on the tree important to those inside Eel Mound.
Istiel stares at Suuha for a moment, lecturing words about his unkept appearance floating to the tip of her tongue.
But now was not the time, and the monk washes the words with a sigh. She looks him in the eye and nods slowly. "Yes, Suuha. It must be me. I have begun to understand our duty to protect goes beyond merely fighting. Three days captivity is a small price for the lives of these people."
With a moment's hesitation, she takes a breath and says quickly- "There is something I must ask of you." Anticipating the conclusion of the deal, she slings her bag around her left shoulder and reaches inside. "Ma- Domhnall. Before he ascended he asked me to keep our traditions alive." Her callused hands produce a round object, wrapped tightly in linen.
She holds it out to her friend. "This is his mask. It should be properly enshrined in the Monastery in Cornucopia for worship. One day it will be. I swear it. But for now I ask you to keep it safe." The monk is clearly reluctant to do this- letting their former Master's mask out of her possession seems to be a painful affair, and it is doubtful she would trust anyone else with it.
"Until I return." Istiel adds, almost as an afterthought. She knows what she does is glorious in its own right, but far more dangerous than fighting five frozen raiders simultaneously.
Naira watched the deal take place. At the mention of the young priestess, the Undine became intrigued, but opted to keep silent. Who would Ashkesh choose? Asking for Oios, the leader, would be implausible, but outside of him, all of Shadeholme was on the table. The Suriname, surely, he had the most value and weight to his name. They'd already expressed an interest in him already.
Three days. Not much time, but enough if both parties kept their word to the agreement. The engineer pondered where her abilities would be best used during that time.
Drazan spits at the idea of this bargain, or any bargain for that matter, as he derisively waves off the wall and this critical moment in Shadeholme's history, though perhaps not a permanent one. Frustration and anger twist Drazan's face as he makes his way off and away to look for something to thrash and bleed off some rage.
Oios turns to Telowo, both of his hands on his old friend's shoulders and speaks softly so that no one else could hear. When we parted ways. When we said our first farewells. I chose to become a Shadow. To go into the dark places to defend the light. You did not. This should not be your burden. It should be mine. If I was not seen as a leader by the people here then I would have walked out long ago. Are you sure of this? That woman has the stink of the same magic that twisted the grove. She out and out admitted to what was done to Thom. If you go... even if they send you back... you will be forever compromised. Are you certain of this my friend?
Telowo nods, before again forcing his staff into his friend's hands. "Just in case," he says, with a small, sad smile. "This is a good thing that I can do, if it saves the lives of what remains of our people. I would lie if I said I wasn't scared, but... this is the right fork in the path."
With a quick nod to Istiel, and a sign of the Father of Waters, Shadeholme's High Priest turns, and the two make their way to the gate. Weapons raised, the soldiers stand ready as the gate is opened, revealing, on the other side, Ashkesh and his guards, their weapons stowed peacably at their sides. Taking a step forwards, Ashkesh pauses, his foot wavering in midair, before he turns to the Frozen.
"Cut the priestess loose. She'll be our guest among our guests."
Soon, the woman is slung over his back, and Ashkesh and his guardsmen cross the threshhold into Eel Mound, passing Istiel and Telowo headed the other way.
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Imix turns to Oios and Naira
"I shall miss Istiel." sighs Imix as the monk walks out. "She was very dependable."
"I would not trust that new priestess. The Flame is patient enough to plant someone who will not betray us for years. She may be here to take a position for the next incursion, wherever we settle."
More brightly he adds "I am happy to 'host' Ashkesh. I'm high enough status it isn't an insult, I know what to listen for, and I don't have a grudge. That said, I have a plan that will require much time. If you would prefer someone else do it, then so be it."
Istiel meets Telowo's eyes as they walk to the gate. Her pupils are dilated, wild and excited, but full of determination. She returns his nod and stands next to the priest, arms crossed over her chest as she waits for the gate to be moved.
The monk inhales and exhales in a steady pattern through her mask, controlling her breathing in a fruitless attempt to slow the drum-like pounding of her heart.
As the gate cracks open she in the first to step forward, her movements wooden; the walk of an unpracticed and graceless ceremonial procession. Together the two Shadeholmers pass Ashkesh on his way in, and Istiel briefly stares daggers at the man without turning her head until he passes from her view.