Samen looks around at the angry and unfamiliar faces surrounding him in the gloom.
"Well when you put it that way..."
He carefully picks up the woodcut, making sure to not touch any of the glowing bits, and puts it back into his pack. He nods at each one in turn, then turns his back and heads out the hole.
"See you all back in Rokerenge when this madness is finished."
Uncle stands at the tunnel mouth and gently dissuades anyone from following. "He needs some time to himself. We are suffocating him."
Your heirlooms have ceased their various glowings and motions. The cave quiet and dark again. Uncle's voice has no echo in this place. He shakes his head. "Well, Samoon, as for notes, personal writings, your father and I did not speak of such-"
"They're in Forge." Mother interrupts. Her voice is strained, weary. "Hotah told me how to retrieve the family's money, from a bank there." She nods to herself, her eyes looking far away. "He'll have other valuables there, too."
Although trying to stay calm, Mother becomes obviously agitated a minute or two after Samen leaves. She walks toward Uncle, who is still blocking the entrance. He opens his mouth to say something, but Mother angrily interrupts, "Being an uncle should never mean being a bully. When has yelling at the poor boy ever solved anything?"
Uncle looks hurt, and Mother uses the opportunity to push past him. Jogging, she catches up with Samen, who has not been walking particularly fast.
"Putty, please come back. What if that el can still follow you? Wouldn't you be safer with your family instead of alone?"
Mother catches up with Samen, who had set down the woodcut a distance away from the group and was contemplating smashing it.
"Mother, I..."
He runs out of words and simply begins sobbing. He has been fighting against all of the traumatic change of the last couple days in the vain hope of being able to return to normalcy, but he realizes that will never happen. And he weeps.
"It's all right, putty." Cool hands touch your feverish forehead. Mother cries for a while, too.
When you both have calmed, she looks in your eyes and says, "Promise me you won't be leave. You could die out there, and I can't stand the thought of losing you after losing your father!" Her arms cannot reach around you, so she digs her fingers--almost painfully--into your side with a desperate embrace.
Marianne sits awkwardly for a while after Samen and Mother leave. ”So...” she begins uncomfortably. ”Do you know anything about our specific artifacts?”
"They were gifts to your father on the day he passed the trials of the priest. Soon after that, he met your mother, and chose a different path."
"As for the specifics?" He shrugs expressively. "I can certainly imagine why a wind-blessed archer would receive a prayer scroll of Sky."
"Now, something you may not know about your father's tribe - they are called the Cedar Smoke tribe. Thousands of years ago, they were allied very closely with sylphs and with Sky. But when Sky fell..." He holds his palms open as if to say, what can you do?
"So it also makes sense to me that some, or all, of these heirlooms may have something to do with Sky."
He gestures to the rest of your heirlooms, weaving them together with the bobbing motions of his hands. "As for the rest, however," he laughs, "I must confess I don't even know what Samoon's gift is, so that tells you how much I know."
To absolutely no one's surprise, Marianne immediately becomes more alert upon the mention of Sky. "These might all be relics of Sky?" she asks eagerly.
"I won't, mother. I don't know what's going on, and I think we're making a mistake, but I'll see this through. I owe you all that much."
He wipes his tears away and picks up the woodcut like a snake before putting it back into his pack.
"Let's go join the others. I don't feel comfortable being in a hole with only one entry/exit. Even the rabbits know better than that. If we are going to take on the role, we might as well start thinking like prey."
Mother hugs you tightly and walks back with you to the others.
Samen, embarrassed about his departure, has no idea how to handle his return gracefully. Instead he just pretends nothing happened.
"Where is this Cedar Smoke tribe? Presumably they would be best equipped to know what these things truly are."
"Deep in Forest, to the north and east. And the welcome you would receive there, being Hotah's sons and daughter would be...mixed." He grins sheepishly. "As would my welcome, come to think of it."
Samoon takes a moment to put a comforting hand on his youngest sibling's shoulder. "I understand your reservations, Samen. But we have to stick together. And Mum, thanks. We'll choose our path and measure our resources in Forge. If my experiences--and ours--are any to go by, the servants of the Dark will be less emboldened to attack within a city. Note that they didn't even try for us in town."
Samoon sighs at his uncle's admonitions. "Really, Uncle, I'm trying to make this sound less than unlikely to poor Samen here, and now you say that we wouldn't be well received by our own cousins. Mind telling us why?"
"Hmph. Too far to travel while being hunted. Any idea why we're being hunted, if these aren't stolen? And why would the hunt begin only now? Was Father sustaining some sort of abjuration to prevent their detection?"
Uncle nods. "I believe he had linked some sort of masking spell to his life force, yes. He was very clear that these last two--the crystal and the woodcut--were not to be given until after his death."
"As for the why..." Uncle waggles his long fingers, loosing a few more silhouettes into the air - these appear to be tiny birds. "When Sky fell," the birds are consumed by darkness, "no one knows exactly what happened to that power. For a god's power does not simply disappear." Tree-shadows dance in an unseen breeze. "And there is still wind, is there not? Still air for us to breathe?"
Uncle makes a cutting motion and the silhouettes fall away. "So what is the one secret worth having about Sky? The location of His power, which I shudder to think falling into the hands of the Dark. We would have spawn falling from above like raindrops!"
To Samoon, Uncle says, "The East Tribe and its cousins, like the Cedar Smoke, are not the type to forget an insult. And, for better or worse, Hotah's decision to leave the tribe and marry your mother was an insult. The gifts were freely given - I do not think anyone would quibble over that. But pride...well, that is another thing entirely."
Marianne's eyes are shining by now, and even in the tunnel the winds begin to whip frantically with her excitement, to the point where they are getting annoying to the others. "So, are you saying that these might be a map to Fallen Sky?!" she asks excitedly. "We have to go to the Cedar Smoke and learn all we can!" she exclaims almost immediately with more than a hint of fanaticism, giving no time for a response. "Not only must we keep it away from the Dark and Its minions, but if we could manage to actually find Fallen Sky..." Marianne trails off, lost in dreams of finding and somehow reviving the fallen god.
"We must be calm and careful, hawk's flight. As Samoon says, Forge has safety and supplies. It reminds me of a story..."
Uncle whiles away several miles of the trip telling how Vulture always fell for Monkey's tricks by being too impatient.
"Overland to Forge, then," says Samoon. "I don't give a damn about whatever ancient insult Dad made--I'm pretty sure this tribe can forgive us in light of doing something to hold back the dark," he continues.
"I'm not convinced the gods are creators and...engines of all things, Uncle," says Samoon. "For all we know they were, or are, just very powerful creatures that govern forces, but are not required for them to continue." He elbows Samen. "How's that for some heresy."
Samoon sights along the cross-staff when they take a break.
Samen laughs at Samoon's ribbing. "Don't let the inquisitors hear that. They have less of a sense of humor than Erret. It would make a certain amount of sense for Sky to not be fully dead. After all, the sylph are alive and well, so their patron must be in some state of existence as well."
Marianne seems to deflate at Uncle's statement, but nods in agreement. She frowns, but says nothing in response to Samoon's statement, mostly because he has a point.
Wamblee breaks his long silence, meditating on the orb that he can feel in his hands.
"The manufactured slag here cuts us off from root. I would have us leave here soon, all of us."
While his eyes move from el to el, he cannot help but glance that chip longer at Samen before continuing.
"The Cedar Wood tribe have reason to distrust us, but blood and potentially a god's fate cannot be ignored. They *must* aid us."
"Who knows," replies Samoon to Samen. "Does every race require a deific patron? I find that somewhat...well, anyhow."
"Yes," Marianne says definitively.
"I've never heard of a race that isn't closely associated with a god. Even the dark worshippers, while not a distinct race, bear the mark of their devotion. So much, including Sky, was lost when the Darkness came. Who knows what else was lost?"
"The question is: does the god influence the race, or does the race influence the god?"
"It's hypothesized that both influence the other, although, again, sylphs haven't died off," says Samoon.
"For as much as the races are different, there is much that we all share in common. If we are all created in the image of our patron, then they must also likewise be created in the image of some higher deity. How else would you explain us all having roughly the same elenoid body composition? Perhaps, instead, subsets of the population were claimed by the individual gods and remolded to suit their tastes."
"That is entirely possible. Our origins are mysterious, which many have taken to mean irrelevant. A foolish notion. If we do not know our history, we cannot learn from it."
The candles go by quickly as you discuss the gods, the races, and your place within the world. Volcano is close to dim when you see the outskirts of Forge.
The first you notice, of course, is Roccia Pugno - the squat pile of stone--the locals proudly call it a castle--that sits atop the tallest peak in the vicinity. The outstretched fist momentarily blocks Volcano from view as you approach from the northwest. Forge is a city of hills - mines dot the cityscape both inside and out, giving the impression of hundred of tiny legs and antennae poking out from the rising land.
As the wind shifts, the second thing you notice is the smell of industry. The smoke and oil from a thousand forges, smelters, and foundries lifts into the sky like a burnt offering.
As you approach, the last thing you notice are pogona riders, going through drills, just outside the walls. The riders are graceful, the pogonas are surprisingly fast, and the squad keeps a tight formation. All save one drive their lances through their practice dummies. You hear cheers and a few jeers in the distance.
"I'll speak for us. I've been here before. Our business is clear: to perform an accounting of Dad's assets. If someone stops us for that, there will be a problem," says Samoon firmly, ending on a grim note.
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She lets Samoon talk.
The walls of Forge are taller than any building in Rokerenge. There are several lanes of traffic toward the wide gates, with guards at the head of each one. Following Samoon's example, you all get behind other elen with no wagons or other vehicles. The line moves with admirable speed, and soon the sleepy-eyed ifrit guard turns to you and says, "State your business, show any papers you have." The words sound oft-repeated.
Wamblee remains stoic and silent, aiming to at the very least not impede Samoon's speaking.
"Samoon Firenze and my family, from Rokerenge, here to perform appraisal of my father's accounts in Forge," says Samoon matter-of-factly. "No papers, I'm afraid, but we can give you the bank name." He leaves it at that, not wanting to push it--this guard probably doesn't want to hear a lot of guano.
The guard nods, mostly uninterested. "Firenze? Funny name for a bunch of sylphs and oreads. Here you go, day passes for your business. Find a Watch post to purchase another pass if you need to stay longer."
You all pass by the guard's gaze. He frowns when he sees Samen, and says to the group in general, "And no trouble. This is a town of order."
Mother says, "I don't know where it is, but your father said his money and other possessions were at the..." she points her finger in the air, pronouncing deliberately, "Argentaria Auream."
Wamblee takes a few moments to pack away his numerous exotic weapons. His three-piece staff folds in on itself, his others weapons quickly disappearing into either his backpack or clothing.
As he is finishing, Wamblee flexes his fists - and the skin feels that much harder than before.
”Samen, you came here with Father on business trips, did he every being you to this “Argentaria Auream?” Marianne asks. She’s not really paying attention though, eyeing the bustling city with poorly disguised distaste. Her gaze especially lingers on the great foundries for which Forge is so famous, or, more accurately, the masssive amounts of black smoke they are pumping into the air.
Samen ignores the guard's slight. People don't like tattoos very much, it seems.
"Yes, that sounds familiar. Let me get my bearings..."
"It's generally in this direction." He points off toward the more well-to-do part of town. "I'm sure someone in the area will be able to direct us more precisely."
How strange to be following Samen's lead on, well, anything. But it's a welcome sign.
Samen leads the group to the wealthy southern district - the Gold Hills. Beginning at the north end of town, you make your way toward the closest main thoroughfare. To your right, the Iron Hills loom, covered with simple black iron equipment: the struts, cranes, tracks, and supports--even the wheels of the carts--are all made from the dull black metal. Some of the older mines are obviously in disuse, their half-rusted hulks hanging like cancerous scabs from the slope.
You gain the thoroughfare. It is a strange road - made with a hard, smooth conglomerate of rocks, mostly black and dark blue. You can see bright spots in certain places, where the road has worn away - underneath the rock layer, there are crisscrossing bars of metal. Occasionally you see an oread in dirt-brown robes sprinkling what appears to be wet mud on these spots.
The road is wide enough for several wagons at once, and so your pace picks up as the late afternoon progresses. The path is circuitous - you are forced to go around Roccia Pugno and the surrounding training grounds.
You make the Gold Hills. The mines upon the hills are all in good repair. Some are even decorated with house symbols - a slain pogona here, a triangle-upon-shield there. At this point, Samen is unsure if the bank would be on the east side or west side of the district.
Samoon looks for an amicable passerby to ask about the Argentaria. "Funny, Dad was never in this part of town when he took me. Iron Hills and other trading districts, maybe."
Samoon easily spots a bustling older ifrit who seems to be more interested in chatting than buying food at one of the road-side food stands. "Oh, they have all sorts of buildings on the east side of the Goldies. Just follow the road that way..." She tries to draw you into more conversation about what you are doing in town, but she just as easily turns her attention back to the jerky stand when you say goodbye.
"East it is then. Good work, brothers."
As you work your way east across the top of the district, the splendid gold mines twinkle to your right. The slain pogona (red pogona on a black background) insignia dominates here. An experienced eye might notice some areas at the top of the hill that look defensive in nature - cranes that look more like siege engines, and pick axes that look like spears and arrows.
After five minutes or so, you sense a dark, lumpy shape forming to your far left. Your first thought may be darkspawn, but then, the shape resolves: before you lie the Dead Hills, the infamous and long-depleted silver mines. The hills are a uniform black, making a strange contrast against the insistent browns, yellows, and grays that comprise the rest of the city. The range, which extends beyond the walls, now houses a network of columbaria for the fallen veterans among the ifrit.
Uncle seems uncomfortable in town. He is quiet, withdrawn. Mother seems better today; she speaks with each of you now and again. Just a simple question or pleasantry, but a considerable improvement from yesterday. Her smile is strained, but genuine. She seems eager to make some sort of physical contact with each of you: a squeezed arm, a too-long hug, or a mop of red hair tousled by a mother's hand.
Wamblee does his best not to draw attention. He would be much happier away from this place, but the family needs to be here for now.