Silvam is a typical village in Ustalav, small, bleak and dreary at the best of times. Colours almost seem slightly muted here. The people are suspicious of outsiders, and incredibly superstitious. Many people considered to be part of the village live in the surrounding area working their fields but can reach town within a hour or two walking. The people live in wooden houses with thatched roofs, most houses have visible symbols that are thought to ward off evil, spirits, the damned, or other supernatural threats. Wise villagers have their homes blessed frequently by Bayan, a local priest of Pharasma.
The center of the village is a small square where a north-south and east-west road meet. Their is a decent sized, old stone church on the east side, with Bayan's house across the east road from it. Several shops and businesses fill the adjacent area, the most important of these being a tavern in the south-east corner and a large blacksmith's shop beside it.
About a kilometer north of the village on a small rise is the old and ill-maintained Gelu House, ancestral seat of the Gelou family. This house is noteworthy as the only stone structure other than the church in the area.
The players have found themselves in Silvam for a variety of reasons, but most were simply passing through the area when the first winter storm hit on the last day of Neth. It began raining heavily and didn't stop. You were forced to find shelter but no peasant would let you into their home, not trusting strangers to spend the night under their roof. Anywhere you tried stopping directed you to try the tavern in Silvam.
The tavern in Silvam is nothing to brag about, it doesn't even have a name being the only tavern in the area. Fortunately the Swiftfeet serve decent drinks and food so the last day you have been stuck there has been rather pleasant other than the strange looks you get from the few locals who have braved to storm for a pint.
The inside of the tavern has enough tables and chairs to seat about 35 people comfortably. The walls are adorned with various odds and ends that probably all have interesting stories behind them and the fireplace does a decent job of keeping out the damp and chill from the storm.
Swift sits at one of the tables, quietly reading scrolls he found on his last outing. He contemplates every piece before setting it back down. The scrolls are sprawled out on the table, leaving little room for the food he had ordered. He hasn't spoken a word since he got there, apart from ordering a small plate of food and refusing any alcohol.
Inside a little tavern amidst little town amidst a cursed country, there sat a half-elf whose face was wrought of a certain fiery brilliance, but was overthrown by the frown which reigned upon it. He was rugged; a hefty blizzard-gray cloak wrapped around his frame. However, it was obvious he was armed...
Vorelloex dropped the bone once wreathed in mutton on his plate, heaving a sigh which would remind a passer-by of a child who had their immediate hopes dashed. The food, or the weak Ustalavic beer didn't make him forget or cope as much as he hoped.
It was a cold moment in Vorel's life, and seemingly the only warming facet of the scene was the blizzard which raged around the small town. The familiar howl of the winds and the feeling of his nose reddening at their first meeting made him remember of colder climates and warmer memories; of his late brother, their massive hauls of mammoth meats, and the cavorting days which followed.
"Isthasy, kii tira coi xkhat hefoc nomeno? Yth nurti woari ghoros, halkvri astahii wer fanol. Si agantai wux jaciv tisvelk apzen."
The kellid muttered to himself.
The elflike hunter wore his heart on his sleeve, and even through his glowing, imperious countenance, if anyone in the small tavern gave a glance or hint of notice, they would see a once hardened man whose heart had been broken.
The sorrow in his brow furrowed to fury.
His fist slammed on the table.
"Xsiol, filki confn spical!!!"
Vorelloex hollered in an almost melodramatic agony.
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The door is thrown wide as a huge man *at least at first glance* struggles through the storm and enters the tavern. "By the gods, that storm couldnt get much worse!!" the large shape mutters to itself. Garekk shrugs off his cloak and pack, and heads for a quiet corner, ordering a plate of food and drink on his way. As he passes in front of the firelight, you think you can see a hint of Orc in his high, sloped brow.
Another one, Voryn thought to himself as the large man entered. It was rare to see so many strange types in the Swiftfeet's tavern, as what the storm had brought in today. And these weren't regular people. They carried weapons and did not look ustalavian. The seemingly distressed elven-looking fella had just spoken some words in a very strange language. And the newcomer looked strange too. As he passed in front of the light from the fireplace he looked almost like an orc for a second. At least Voryn wasn't the strangest thing in the tavern today...
It had been a strange day. He had been waylaid by bandits while out hunting, and the monk, Swift, had come to his aid. In return, Voryn had offered to guide Swift on a shortcut to Silvam, as the weather was starting to look sinister. It was rare to see a monk in these parts, and Voryn hadn't expected any other odd ones in the tavern except himself and the monk.
He had left Swift to his own devices, a short while after entering the tavern, as the monk seemed occupied with his scrolls. Instead of bothering the monk, he had ordered some ale and had taken his usual spot at a table in the back of the tavern.
The gusts of wind from the opening of the tavern door scattered the scrolls the monk had set up on the table. He furrowed his brow in frustration, but thought to himself "Being at peace with oneself means being at peace with others. Or something like that." He was still trying to figure out this whole wise man thing he was embarking on.
He swiftly gathered the wayward scrolls and stuffed them into his cloak. He locked eyes with Voryn, the gruff fellow he had met earlier in the day, and gave him a look, as if to say "Strange men indeed!" Swift knew this land was unforgiving to strangers, and these were the strangest he had seen yet.
The monk quickly finished his food, left some coins on his table, and headed for the distressed half-elf, hoping to quell the stranger's uproar before the locals took too much notice. The other newcomer was more calm, and less likely to panic the citizens.
"Peace friend. What ails you? Be it of mind or of body?"
The emotional foreigner turned to the wizened figure to his side, glaring at the ascetic as if Vorelloex's own body were channeling scornful bolts of lightning from the skies through his flaming, golden eyes.
"What ails? WHAT AILS? Misfortune bestows DEATH, and those with luck live on to watch her DANCE AS SHE TAKES THEIR KIN AWAY! May my mind and body be DAMNED!"
As the chink in the armor gives way to fatal wound, so does the elfblood Kellid crumple into mourning.
"CHISOHK!! Kind stranger, my brother is dead..."
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A fifth stranger enters the tavern from the chill of the Neth rain. He takes in the establishment and calls over a stable boy. Handing over a copper or two, the man says, "Take care of my mule lad and warm and feed her. She has had a long journey. And mind my gear. If anything is missing, I'll know. Oh, also, careful that you don't poke yourself on anything sharp."
There, the man mused, let him see the weapons of war and the dreams of battle fill his head. In a few years, he will remember this night and want to make those dreams come true.
The man then makes his way to the tavern's counter. He catches the tavern keep's attention and orders his meal. "A warm bowl of stew and malt wine please. And, a round of ale for the house. It's a cold night and the good people of Silvam deserve some warmth in their bellies" He puts his coins on the counter and, before the barkeeper can go off to fullfil the order, the man reaches out, grabs the keep's wrist and puts two silver coins in the keep's palm, "And send over anyone who can give a truthful tale."
Before the keep can protest, the man turns and heads to an empty table with good lighting and plenty of seats. He sits down and tries to recall if anything he has seen these past few days can spark a memory.
"Don't worry. I've done this before. Twice even!" Calistria says with a bright smile. Nearby, the tavern's assistant cook looked on as he wrung his hands with worry. Of course, the object of his worry, his wife, lay on the floor, grunting and moaning in pain. Her large belly making it obvious that the babe inside wouldn't wait any longer to escape into the world.
"Pile some blankets together and tuck them under her head and shoulders. We'll want to get her elevated." Calistria gives gentle instructions to the cook. "And I'll need you to boil some water and sterilize a blade for me. Don't worry! The blade's just for the cord afterwards. This delivery will go smooth as your new baby's bottom, I promise."
Calistria closes her eyes and mentally whispers a brief prayer to Desna.
"Please let this delivery go so smooth, my lady."
Clearly in shock of the half-elf's retort, the monk stares wide-eyed but quickly composes himself. "Think! I must find a way to calm his wounded soul!"
"May I sit? Dealing with grief is best done sitting down and on a full stomach. Do not wallow in self-pity at what could have been done. If fate has decreed this, then it must be so." He pauses, trying to gauge the half-elf's reaction.
He also notices another fellow enter the tavern.
"My, what a busy day we are having. Something is brewing. It would be wise to stay alert"
At hearing the word 'fate', the weary drunkard droops his head, as if he were a tortoise withdrawing into himself; trying to steel his soul against invisible blows of remorse and guilt. Before speaking he quaffs a draft of his meager ale.
"Aye... But it WERE my fault... Xsiol... CHISOHK!"he hiccups.
Vorelloex's gaze meets again the eyes of the mannered man, this time with such bitter vehemence that the monk could even see the inner parts of the broken Kellid's heart of hears. Peering inward, the monk could easily tell that this man's actions had either directly or inadvertently killed those mourned over.
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"When the heart weeps for what it has lost,the soul laughs for what it has found." After seeing the man's inner anguish, the monk realizes it will take much more than the sweet kiss of alcohol to staunch his emotional wounds.
"You need to find yourself. You are a lonely ship, lost at sea. You must find your beacon, so that you may make your way back home. These troubled lands hold much loss and death. I have some experience in the matters of loss. It is only when you are truly lost that you can find your true self. Here, a round of ale has been bought by this kind man. Have some more, and maybe tomorrow will be a new day"
He gives a nod of thanks to the man in armor, and gives his round of ale to the bereaved half-elf.
Although not used to kindness, the raw huntsman takes the bearded man's words and bottle for what they're worth. Vorelloex had been through hardship before, but this wound was deep, and oh, so new.
"Errh, thank you... Your company helps me..."
The elfblooded Kellid pauses for a moment, as if to find words which existed beyond the confines of the radius of his blizzard within.
"You. What, is your name?... I am named Vorelloex, ...Ledir."
At the name Ledir, his eyes shift away from the monk, as if to hide the shame of bearing his name after allowing his kin to be swept away.
Relthas, I wish I could have had the strength to keep you alive, and bring pride to our father's name... I'm sorry...
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Voryn lifts his new mug of ale in the direction of Rois and nods as to say thank you for the ale, followed by a big swig of it. Then he dries his scarred face with his sleeve and gets up from his table to go to the bar. "Heya Antal. A lot of irregulars here tonight huh? It's been a while since last time I stopped by town. Any news?"
As the huntsman walks up to the bar, the monk refocuses on the tormented soul before him.
"You may call me Swift-Palm, or Swift for short. My name of men is of little importance. A name should describe an individual, not decide how an individual must be treated. Thus I have relinquished my name in the hopes of becoming who I truly wish to be.
At this he pauses.
"Is that a baby crying in the back?"
"It is important not to grieve alone. Do you have anyone you wish to counsel with?" Swift motions to the huntsman. "We men of the wandering path may seek solace in solitude, but I believe the support of those who have also felt loss would be a better cure your wounded heart."
Voryn lifts his new mug of ale in the direction of Rois and nods as to say thank you for the ale, followed by a big swig of it. Then he dries his scarred face with his sleeve and gets up from his table to go to the bar. "Heya Antal. A lot of irregulars here tonight huh? It's been a while since last time I stopped by town. Any news?"
"I it the damned storm, always drives strangers into town. But I guess I shouldn't complain it keeps the place busy.
Last big market of the year before winter is supposed to be this Starday. You would likely get a good price for any game as people stock up for the winter. With your luck you might even find some if this storm lets up.
Oh and Ilsa, Gregor's wife, went into labour a few hours ago. Weather was too bad to send for the midwife but Yamira and a traveling priestess are with her. Tis bad luck to be born on such a night."
"Don't worry." Calistria says as she wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm. "Babies can take a while. Everything's going swell. I'll be right back. You keep her company."
Calistria pats the assistant cook on the shoulder and then stands up to stretch out her aching legs. She stumbles to the door and pushes it open so she can peek out into the tavern's main room.
"Hey there!" Calistria shouts, as loudly as she can, "Someone out there bring a nice, tall mug of water back here for the lady pushing out a baby!"
She pauses, then adds.
"And an ale for me!"
With that, Calistria leans back inside the back room and waits for the next round of contractions.
"I will let you mull this over. I shall assist the good woman in her endeavor"
The monk rises from the table, grabs an extra mug of ale and a mug of water from the barkeep and heads to the back room, with one last sidelong glance at the half-elf.
"It is pretty bad. I wonder what has stirred up Gozreh so...
And Ilsa is giving birth, you say. The presence of the priestess may cancel out the bad luck of being born on a stormy night. Which god does she represent? Erastil?"
Just as Voryn has finished his sentence, a young woman opens the door of the tavern's back room and shouts for water and an ale. Swift answers the call and Voryn turns back to Antal awaiting his answer.
The cleric's call brings Rois out of his contemplation. A baby? he mumbles to himself, Damn...there goes any return on my silver. No use gaining any information tonight with everyone hubbubbing over a newborn. And, it's too late and the storm is too bad to try another inn tonight. Damn.
Rois looks around to take another look at the crowd. He can see that while everyone is gathering towards the kitchen door, trying to get a peek at the birthgiving, one man, a half-elf, from the look of him, remains at his table lost in sorrow. Might as well. Iomidae, please let this be the just course.
With the silent prayer complete, Rois stands and heads over to the stranger. "Hello there good sir. I could not help but overhear that you have lost a loved one." Rois sais in a concerned voice. Taking a gamble with the foreign words, he continues "I understand your sorrow. Where I am from, there are many who have lost their life needlessly. Would you like to pay homage to your...Xsiol? It can help the grief."
Calistria has nothing but smiles for the monk who brings ale and water both.
"That is simply a lovely beard. It must take you forever to style it each morning." Calistria offers to Swift-Palm.
Calistria's affiliation should be obvious to those who care to look. Her clothing seems hardy and designed for travel but a silver talisman, in the shape of a pair of swallowtail wings, hangs about her neck.
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Caught of guard by the priestess' comment, Swift mumbles unintelligibly, his cheeks glowing like burning hot coals. He sets down the mugs and faces the cleric.
"Do you require any more aid, child of Desna?"
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At that moment, a very small figure enters. She seems to be taking the storm and its insistence on buffeting her and her small body as a personal challenge.
"What I lack in strength, I more than make up for in will!" she declares to herself.
She forces her way through the door, then forces it closed behind her. With that, she rests on the door for a moment, catching her breath.
She is a female gnome, buried in purple and lavender clothes that go well with what little you can see of her mauve flesh.
Once she has taken her moment to recover, she starts to take a look at the tavern and all within it.
Then she heads to a table and sits there, saying nothing but listening to everything.
"It is pretty bad. I wonder what has stirred up Gozreh so...
And Ilsa is giving birth, you say. The presence of the priestess may cancel out the bad luck of being born on a stormy night. Which god does she represent? Erastil?"
Just as Voryn has finished his sentence, a young woman opens the door of the tavern's back room and shouts for water and an ale. Swift answers the call and Voryn turns back to Antal awaiting his answer.
"I believe she serves Desna, but I didn't enquire much she seemed busy."
Just as Calistria opens her mouth to answer Swift-Palm, Isla opens her mouth as well, to scream.
"Next round!" Calistria takes a moment to drain a good third of her ale and then sets it down on a little table by the wall. Then she's back on her knees, between Isla's legs and taking a peek.
"Honestly, she's doing all the work. Her body knows what to do. I'm just here for support." Calistria glances up at Swift-Palm before looking back down. "You're doing a lovely job, sweetling. I think you're almost there. Have some water to cool yourself down, though, alright?"
Calistria motions to Swift-Palm and the mug of water he holds, then to Isla.
I'd rather be facing orcs than helping with childbirth. Rois thinks as he hears the woman scream from beyond the kitchen door. He shudders silently in his discomfort.
Clearly ill at ease with such a foreign task, Swift nevertheless rises to the opportunity to help the woman. He takes the mug of water and offers some to the soon-to-be mother in an attempt to cool her down.
"I see. Explains why she is traveling." He leans close to Antal and whispers: "More than can be said about a lot of your customers here tonight. Know that I am ready if anything happens. And the monk I arrived with is a good sort. Helped me with some trouble I had earlier today."
Voryn leans back again and takes a swig of his ale. "I was out hunting in the woods a few miles east of town, when I was waylaid by bandits. I was lucky that the monk came to my aid. I might not have been able to handle them on my own. Have you heard anything about any trouble with bandits lately?"
Calistria reaches out to pat Swift-Palm on the closest and most reachable aspect of his anatomy. Which may very well be his backside.
"Blessed be." Calistria says, softly, "What you're doing is a small task but a good one. You're a good man."
Calistria draws some salve from her healing kit and begins rubbing it into the Isla's thighs.
"This should help relax you a little. I know your muscles must be sore."
And that's when Hailey approaches.
"Oh. My. Desna!" Calistria squeals as she looks over at Hailey. "You're the most adorable gnome I've ever seen! Would you say she's fully dialated? I think she is."
Calistria motions for Hailey to look at poor Isla's private parts as she seeks a clerical consult.
"Anything to help, m'lady" He blushes further.
Antal looks backs at Voryn, "I haven't heard anything specifically, perhaps you should speak to the baron in the morning. After all, the infection that festers is the one that kills; and half the farmers here are one bad crop from becoming thieves themselves to feed their families at the best of times."
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at the mention of his son potentially being a sorceror, Gregor quickly makes a sign to ward off evil and looks even more nervously at his wife. Yamira also made a similar sign at the same time.
you hear Antal's voice from the main room. "Gregor, your wife better not be giving birth to a sorceror in my kitchen. Come out here and get a drink. You can't do anything standing there and might worry yourself to death."
At that moment an older man in robes enters the tavern, a holy symbol of Pharasma hanging around his neck. "There is little that can be done such is to be the child's fate, Antal. Nevertheless I will pray that such does not happen."
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Hailey is astounded at the reaction.
How can the birth of a sorcerer be anything but wonderful? Oh, but these are peasants. They know nothing of the mysteries. Of course they fear it. It seems such a shame.
"Forgive me," Hailey quickly pleaded. "Nobody truly understands the mysteries of heredity. He may well turn out to be a priest of Desna, under your wise tutelage, great lady. I like to muse on destinies and de . . . dreams. Dreams. Dreams."
Calistria's barely glances up as she hears another voice coming from the common room. Instead, her entire focus shifts to the mother-to-be.
"I think it is time." Calistria nods to herself. She motions towards Swift-Palm. "She'll need a hand to squeeze. You look tough enough to take the pain.
Then Calistria looks over at Hailey.
"Sister, get some blankets ready to wrap up the baby. On a cold night like this, there'll be chills if we don't clean and warm it right away."
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"Oh, of course! Mustn't have the baby dying y . . . you can be sure of that!"
She opens up her backpack, then drops it to the floor and removes her bedroll. After that, she tears out the small blanket within it, and hands it to Calistria.
"Thin, I admit, but it'll do for a start while I go find some more. Where would I find some more? And if you haven't blankets, you surely have towels or at least tablecloths."
If there are anything useful, Hailey will then go and get it. Yes, I know, I left her backpack on the floor, open.
OOC: No, DM, I didn't realize there were two rooms. Will you allow me to revise it so that instead of Pharasma, I said Desna?
Voryn looks thoughtful for a moment. Speak to the baron in the morning... Dead bandits might be more worth than dead animals, and I would rather kill bandits than animals. "I should probably do that. Might be worth my while to hunt some highwaymen. After all, the baron should want his roads to be safe. Thanks Antal."
He finishes his ale and asks for another. Upon receiving it, he goes back to his table.
I wonder if everything is going well with the birth. He looks at the door to the backroom. Plenty of clerics here, so it should be fine. Can't hurt with a prayer to Erastil though. Erastil, god of hunting, farming and family, please help Ilsa in her birth. May it be a healthy child and may everything go well.
The monk offers his hand to the mother.
"Do not lose hope. The baby is almost upon us!"
The half-elf watches the wiseman leave to attend the child as a pup watching a man walking away with a raw 5 pound steak in hand. He nods in response to his words, and jolts just a little as the recruiter comes and greets him.
With the silent prayer complete, Rois stands and heads over to the stranger. "Hello there good sir. I could not help but overhear that you have lost a loved one." Rois sais in a concerned voice. Taking a gamble with the foreign words, he continues "I understand your sorrow. Where I am from, there are many who have lost their life needlessly. Would you like to pay homage to your...Xsiol? It can help the grief."
"Pay homage to damnation? Indeed, my brother was unlucky, but not... damned! Xsiol! Relthas was strong... My brother was strong..."
Be it either the power of the ale of force of sheer will, the volatile Vorelloex almost abruptly composes himself, in his own Kellish manner.
"He was strong, and does deserve homage. What are you called, man?"
Vorelloex almost perks up half a step, in musical notation terms, and offers the noble gruff the pint which he doesn't actually know that that very man bought for him.
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Appearing to shake off his somnolence, Garekk shivers from the cold and peers around the room taking note of all the activity. Hearing the conversation with the half elf, he decides to see if he can be of assistance. Picking up his plate and drinks, and saluting Sir Rois as he passes, Garekk plops down across from Vorelloex. "I am not among the wisest, nor the smartest.. but I know that misery loves company, and I have known my share as well. We will stand beside each other and hold the other up in times of need." With his declaration of solidarity, he tucks into his meal, keeping an ear out for trouble from the kitchen.
Surrounded by strangers, it takes Vorelloex a menial amount of internal effort not to clutch his hatchet. He then at length processes, understands their caring words, and responds in kind. His face then begins to spark, as if the pillar of flame which was his long lost fervor has begun to rekindle.
He is definitely not over mourning, but for the moment has become preoccupied; and this in itself is wonder.
He sees the young brutish man, and his robust countenance reminds the elfblood of those he once travelled with; memories of laughing atop nefarious peaks over obscene talk caress his consciousness.
Vorelloex recognizes as well that the new man before him is cut of similar cloth.
He hands the youth his other draft.
"A brother gained for a brother lost, may our souls learn to burn bright amidst these bitter frosts... So, ...what happened to you?"