Samen interrupts. "Ahem. As I seem to have become a foster parent for this gemling," he gestures at the obvious growths on his staff, " it seems likely it will drive me mad, as you suggest. Is there a safe place I can return him to his own kind, or shall I just continue caretaking?"
Wamblee, the Ambrosia chief is sincere with his words, but his face remains guarded. "Hmm. There is much to ponder. In the meantime,"
As Samen interrupts, the chief looks up at the staff, then frowns back down at Samen. As you all look up, you see the old staff, unblemished by smoke or gems.
Ambrosia addresses Wamblee, rather than Samen. "Tell your brother that jokes regarding gemmed magic are in poor taste. I will overlook it, as a show of respect to you."
He strikes the magic spear against the ground, signalling an end to the conversation. "Now. I must see to my griot, and you must see to your family. I will no doubt see you at the umkhonto tomorrow. Shared roots, Cedarsmoke."
His retinue of warriors flows around him, wary now of every corner and shadow.
Haw haw, very funny. I don't need help looking like an idiot, but thanks anyway.
"Shared roots, Ambrosia.", Wamblee replies.
He turns to Samen:
"Walk with me, brother."
*******
Once away from the crowd, Wamblee will ask Samen:
"The Ambrosia chief was willing to execute the brothers outright for using gemmed magic. That came too close to you being treated similarly. Please Samen, be careful about whom you discuss your elemental 'foundling' with."
Samen, Spes giggles at your irritation. now you special too!
After another half candle, the young elemental seems to be getting tired - the illusion stays up, but Spes' conscious thoughts ebb away in slumber.
Samen scowls in disagreement. "No, they were executed for murder and attempted murder. I wish we could've gotten some answers out of them first, but what can you do? How was I supposed to know Spes is illegal around here? I was attempting to be forthright, but now I just look like an idiot. All the more reason to get out of here and make our way to the breathless valley as soon as possible."
As you all make your way to the merc wagon, you see Iniga sitting with Margherita, and Martino's still form beside them.
From the Ambrosia table--far uphill now--you hear a solemn, deep, drumming beat that signals a particular tribe has arrived - the Weeping Willows. The grayleaves have come to collect the griot's body and find a proper place to plant him.
Margherita mutters, "Those damn creeps better not try to get Martino."
"Fair points, Samen. I am left unsure of how much help if any we can acquire here. But I believe that we should still try to find it-"
He sees the scene at the wagon.
"My sorrows for you, Margherita. A griot - a tribal speaker - was murdered in front of us by Matoskah, with Maht nearby to support. They are now both executed."
"Indeed. We also recovered the hand. I could attempt to destroy it, but I have a feeling something that powerful would work to defend itself."
He begins mumbling to himself about how to go about breaking the thing. "Hmm, maybe if I can trick it into attacking the god-pillar..."
He chips in and eats from the common food supply, but doesn't seek anyone out to have a conversation with. Afterward, he goes to bed, wondering about what might be found at the breathless valley.
She nods. "At least they do justice right out here. Good for you guys."
After being gone perhaps half a candle, Fillipo comes back, riding in a wagon beside Weeping Willow. The grayleaf, wrinkled and wiry, calmly drives the earthen oxen toward the merc camp.
In the back of the wagon are several large stones, the foundation for an ifrit funeral that will not spread. Above that is a hefty portion of dry birch, to burn hot and fast.
Margherita pales. Her fists bunch up. "Hey! I said no weird religious merde! That means priests and whatever the hell you are!"
Fillipo holds out a hand. "'Rita, no, it's like a charity, to help-"
"Oh, and I guess they don't want to 'say some words' over the body, or pour some stupid incense in the fire? Or plant the ash for a tree?"
The Willow says nothing. Just waits.
Fillipo says, "Nothing like that. It's just a gift. They help out all the races in times of trouble." He waits for Margherita to take a breath. "Okay?"
She takes a second breath. "Fine."
Without a word, the grayleaf gets to work. Stone by stone, log by log. The fire will burn hot, and fast. A farewell to a short life.
"If we find his killer, I am more than happy to assist to see to their end also."
He watches the assembly, uncertain of whether it would be rude of him to ask to aid.
Margherita sees the question in Wamblee's stance. "Actually. I'd prefer if it was just us, starting now. You're welcome here for the night, but at the burning and for the first part of the night I want it to just be me and my els outside. We'll find you in our wagons let you know when we're ready to sleep."
Wamblee nods.
"Certainly. I will do as you wish."
The wagon, now emptied of the mercs' own merchandise, is large enough to hold the three of you comfortably. When Marianne and Samoon decide to come in, it will be closer, but still tolerable between family.
The smell of burning birch, sweet and sharp, seeps in. The ifrit funeral has begun.
As Marianne opens the door, you get a stronger whiff of smoke, brought in on the sudden winter draft. The faint sound of far-away orean dirge-drums accompanies it.
She quickly closes the door. She looks furious. "That maol liar!" She pulls a note from her pocket. "Mister Sneaky-Invisible put this in my pack when I wasn't looking." She throws it to the floor of the wagon.
"And the damn volcing jerk is gone." There are tears in her eyes, but she is not weeping. She looks disappointed and angry.
Still spouting hot, angry words, she says, "I'm going to sleep. I'm sure Marg and the rest are going to kick us out in a two or three candles."
Dear Sibs,
Hotah, our dear father, had a strange piece of advice for me in his journal: “Don't let your feelings of responsibility overwhelm you”. Something to that effect anyway. Which is a funny thing to say to me, the firstborn, who...left for Light basically as soon as I could. Not exactly overwhelmed by feelings of responsibility here.
But then a funny thing happened. I took the funeral seriously – I prepared a speech and everything. Ha! Then everything started going wrong. And then Mom died. ...And we had no idea what we were doing. I didn't want it, but I felt that terrible weight Dad was talking about.
In a different world, I would have been an elder brother to be proud of. But truth be told, my heart is not in the petty squabbles, or tribes, or elementals, or even whole cities swallowed by the pissing Dark. My heart is with Bree. And if that damn poisonous Abby-whats-her-name told even a bit of truth about Bree being in the Breathless Valleys, then I'm going. Period.
I don't feel like arguing with any of you about it, and I certainly don't want any offers to come with me (sincere or otherwise). Split my share of Dad's weird pile of gold between the three of you (oh, and give some to Iniga too. Sorry.)
If I find Bree and rescue her from hell, I'll open a brewery with her in Light. Come see us sometime. Extra sediment for the blockhead brothers.
Samoon Balloon
Samen goes over and picks up the note, nodding as he reads it. When he finishes it, "Well, at least he's not dead. Yet. The fool could've at least waited for the rest of us, but I applaud his initiative."
Wamblee takes the note from Samen, reads it, and a slight frown creases his face. Then it lightens, with uncharacteristic speed given the bearer.
"He knew we would have gone with him... Perhaps this *is* Samoon's way of being responsible. He has as good as told us to focus on the other matters."
The mercs wake up those of you willing to take a watch. The night goes by, blessedly uneventful. You catch sleep where you can.
Soon enough, the noises of morning reach out from wagons, stables, and tents. The great games are unfurling upon the valley, spurred by hundreds of oread hands. Haybales, painted garishly on the side with the fearsome face of the Bull, are being moved into position upon oread backs. The slow, lurching gait of the faces adds to their mute savagery in the murky, flat peaklight.
The first Hunt is gathering--by coincidence--right by the treeline where you found Maht yesterday. The sporting grounds, spread on the flat ground near Amatshe, are being set up for spear throwing. Across the river, isolated from the rest of the festivities, protective circles in salt and ash are being drawn - preparation for the duels of magic.
"See you guys for lunch. I need to go show everyone around here how good a sylph hunter can be."
She stops short. "Oh and Samen, don't get any cute ideas about leaving without us. Samoon learned how to avoid attention when he lived at Light, whereas you seem to pick up flashy, insane ghosts everywhere you go. We need to stick together because we're family, and because we can be strong together. Okay?"
Wamblee replies to his sister:
"As you say Mar, we shall meet for lunch. Here with the mercenaries I imagine. Good hunting. I shall seek my own beasts and we can swap tales afterwards."
He turns to Samen:
"Good duelling, Samen and Iniga. I imagine you will show them something they have never seen before. You usually do that for us.", he finishes with the slightest of smiles.
To Marriane:
"Sure thing, sis. If I was going to abandon you, I would've done it back at the library. I don't know what the future holds for us, but we'll approach it together."
To Wamblee:
"I'll try to only set myself on fire if the situation demands it."
Wamblee and Marianne approach the Hunt. The first day's festivities have a jovial feel to them - most of the oreads here were not directly touched by last night's deaths and they are just as happy to forget about them. Many strong young els walk toward the umkhonto grounds, completely unaware of the cruel spearwork done in the dim yesterhours. Between food vendors, several smiling oread children juggle fruit while playing drums with their feet. Black wool rugs show the copper and silver they have already earned this morning.
Making your way through the growing crowds, you are just in time to see a serious, weatherworn chieftain begin the ceremony of the Hunt. She gives peremptory thanks to the aspects of Forest, and then says, "At this point we would normally bless your weapons, but that will not be necessary. You must catch these creatures by hand. First to bring a live one back, is the winner."
With a slight smile on one side of her mouth, she gestures for the pens to be uncovered. Pigs, made of a white-gray stone. Their grunts sound like footsteps on wet gravel. Are they marble? No...
And then you see one of them slip and fall to the ground. Soapstone. The wooden gates open, and you see dozens of slippery soapstone hogs romp into the wilderness. By the time the initial two minutes' wait is over, there is no visible sign of them.
Soapstone. Of course they would be soapstone.
The moment the two minutes have passed, Wamblee sprints after the hogs. While not as fast as some monks, his athletic ability - and sheer endurance - are potent. As are his instincts in the woods. He seeks to bring down a hog swiftly and effectively.
Samen, an oread wearing a familiar tattered cloak strides into the salted circle with you - Tuhnto. The magus who had worked with--and later walked out on--the disgraced mercenary Pugliesi. He holds up his hands as a show of nonaggression. "Just here for the games, friend. Just like you, right?"
"I recall you having destructive spells at your disposal, so I call for a duel of destruction!" He points to a nearby field of old, rotting scarecrows, which are also encircled with salt and ash.
Wamblee, your feet guide you unerringly to a nearby hog. After a few short minutes, you approach its hiding place. You keep yourself rooted, moving slowly, until the time to strike...now! and grab it tight. Holding fast. Centered, balanced, you bring the tricky creature back toward chieftain of the hunt. You are sure no one else has had time to find a hog of their own, let alone catch-
Unbelievably, another oread shadows you, a soapstone hog of his own choked between steel bicep and iron shoulder. He spots you and starts to jog - thankfully, he seems no faster than you.
***
Ingia approaches Wamblee carefully, during a quiet period. She's been wrestling internally with this request for some time, but felt it necessary to at least ask.
"Wamblee, might I take care of the artifact. I acknowledge its dangers, but as a sacred artifact to my people, I'd feel better if it was in a representative's possession. I'm also resistant to its effects and can potentially control it if need be. Would you be open to letting me take possession of it?"
***
Iniga considers the events, but a hunt, or magical combat wasn't really her strong point. Iniga was a firm believer in using magic to argument ones physical abilities as opposed to directly using it again people in a destructive manner. It certainly felt more fair to her at any rate.
She is eager to resume her search for the priest, but is a little worried about running into a challenge beyond her abilities. Whoever had captured the priest was probably equal to her own abilities, and there was no telling how many allies that person would have.
Reluctantly she puts her search on temporary hold before deciding to check up on Margherita.
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"Agreed. I understand mercenary ways, and I think we can both agree Pugliesi was an idiot."
Samen watches in silence as the same flaming sphere that had threatened them not that long ago clears out the scarecrows.
"Very effective! Your technique and precision are commendable. I, however, prefer a more personal touch."
Wamblee turns to Iniga and listens carefully.
He then nods, and begins to remove the hand from his side, to hand to her.
"That makes great sense. The artefact is yours to carry, Iniga. The brothers yelled what I presume were command words in high ifrit. I shall write what I heard so they are not said out loud."
He finds charcoal and a piece of bark, and writes:
He also hands the bark to Iniga.
"I trust you to deal with the hand wisely, cousin. But be careful nonetheless."
He then thinks a moment, and adds:
"Should you wish aid in avenging the priest, you can call upon us at lunch."
*********************************************
[ooc]Now
Wamblee draws upon his inner force and races ahead, dodging branches and trunks as best he can!
Wamblee, you run with supernaturally light steps - a boulder performing ballet. The chieftain nods and cracks a small smile. Facing the crowd, she says, "Tall Oaks recognizes Cedarsmoke as the winner!"
Samen, without a hint of grace--just pure endurance and fiery force--you tromp through a legion of scarecrows in under half a minute. Tuhnto is stunned for a moment, then bursts out laughing. "Well, this makes me glad it takes two losses to be out of the duels. See you around, Firenze."
Iniga, when you arrive at the mercs wagon, Margherita does not show a hint of sorrow or brooding. Martino's death has been tucked somewhere, or perhaps burned upon last night's funeral fires. "Si, there's still a job to do. Let's be about it."
Iniga begins her search along with Margherita
The Red Tongues have ways of passing information along to one another anonymously- mostly through dead drops and coded messages. Most of the news concerns the ifrit cities, but you recall one piece of information from several weeks ago with astonishing clarity - a rumor of dangerous gem or crystal magics being used by one of the Tribes. All you remember is the name: Wyrmwood.
Wamblee breaks a slight smile at his victory.
Recognition by Oreads!
*****************
After the hubbub, he seeks out his family for lunch.
Samen wipes the sweat from his brow as his flames fade. Gentle steam forms around him as his skin fades back to its normal hue.
He waves goodbye to Tuhnto. "Blessings, friend. Someday, I hope to work with you rather than against you."
After making sure he has no smoldering bits, he returns to meet up with the others.
Marianne waves everyone over to a mid-sized wagon. On the side in large white letters, a sign reads, 'Vincent's Griddle and Rocks'. The smell of sizzling meat and smoke wafts from the opening.
"Come on, let's eat." Marianne orders bacon and eggs, delighted that the cook has both.
"How did you find that pig so fast, Wamblee? Do you have, I don't know, a pig-sense now, because you're both so in tune with dirt?" She gives a taunting sisterly smile.
Wamblee slightly smiles as he deftly skewers a slice of soapstone bacon.
"Our journey has granted me many opportunities to practice my fieldcraft - and to hone skills in hand-to-hand combat. After elementals and darkspawn, a hog did not pose as much a challenge as one might think. I suspect similar is true of Samen and his rapid and fiery victory."
"It's true. None of us are the same as when we left home. I feel like those people are all dead now. What have we become? What will become of us?"
He leaves the questions hanging in the air as he chews down his food.
After finishing her bacon and eggs, Marianne orders black coffee.
"If that Marianne is dead, I can't say I'm mourning her. What is there to miss? Stupid. Believing that Sky would care about mortals any more than the other gods..." She laughs, a bitter caw. "Good riddance to bad dreams." The hot coffee steams in the cold winter air; she blows away the clouds of heat and takes a quick scalding sip.
Samen nods. "Yes. She was a fool. I tried to tell her, but she'd never listen. But do you suppose she was happier?"
"Wrymwood" Iniga mutters to herself and Margherita, before deciding to locate where the chief or dignitaries might be located for such a tribe, so she could learn a little more.