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After a brief misunderstanding with Luthael, or, in fact realizing that perhaps the prophet might be onto the halfling's rather dubious ethics whenever valuables are concerned, Scramsax departs for the temple of Khors in Lingenau.
Soon enough the rest of the band is up, loaded, and setting forth for the same destination with hopes of arriving by days end. Luthael and Aterro, having been up all night tending to the stricken are both weary, but not nearly so much as if either had been alone. Generous rations of Ingryd's honey also helps.
Once underway, there is time to deal with the strangely transformed gnome prisoners. Arianna is the first to ask her questions, perhaps with the answers being most relevant to her given her condition as one of the infected.
The frightened, bulbous eyes of the swollen gnomeloon flick left and right as it bobs and twists in the steady cold breeze rolling across the open grasslands.
"Desired by customer. Did not ask why. Not my business. Could be many things. Breeding own flock. Frighten and harass enemies. Assassinate rivals. Many uses for such things. Maybe boss-gnome knew, but he be dead." The tiny, tinny voice articulates through permanently pursed lips.
"Well then, what about where you were taking us? Were there supposed to be more slavers there?"
Ingryd hears the balloon talk and raises a brow before she looks at the others."So he really is in there. That's weird! How did that happen?"
"Did your boss have a boss? If so who?" Ingryd asks having known a few different caravaners' back when she and her husband took out contracts for the mead they made.
”Was there an antidote or a cure prepared in case one of you got accidentally infected?” asks Gunnar.
"Lost our hats fighting your lot, didn't we." The squeaky voice says in reply to Ingryd's initial question. "When we stumbled into her blasted clearing, the old witch was on us like spider on flies. Cursed us, she did. Said we'd help improve her bottom line until some kid bought us and let us go into the air popped us with a knife." Although balloons can't really shudder, the gnomeloons voice trembles as if it had.
When asked about his bosses boss, there's a long silence as a gust of wind sends the inflated creature bouncing and twisting in the cold air. "Sure. Always a bigger boss. But I don't know who. Fester never said and wasn't our place to ask or know such things. Just needed to do the job, deliver the goods, and get home without getting caught by dragon bi$ch or vile witch."
For a moment you each think the gnomeloon is suddenly leaking air as a shrill squeaking sound emanates from the puffy prisoner. But it is soon realized it is only the creature shrilly laughing at Gunnar's question. "Anyone careless enough to get infected, would just go into the cage. End up part of the deal. Makes sure everyone stays sharp and follows procedures." He finally says with some sober seriousness. "No antidotes, no cures. Aren't any anyway. It isn't some stomach upset settled by a bit of willow bark and chamomile. Potent devil's juju, it is."
Lieeeeeebchennnnnn! Vhere aarrrrreee youuuuu, leeeeetttlle lieeeebcheeeen?"
The voice echoes on the wind as you wake with a start. Realizing you must have dozed off in the cold, you slap your hands together and jog a few quick circuits on the carpet. Certainly it was just a dream. Your imagination.
There is little time to ponder the incident further, as you suddenly spot the steeple tops and watch towers of Lingenau slowly emerging in the gray fog shrouded northern horizon.
"Well, if you don't have anything else of value to say," Arianna says before pulling the gnome-loon close and aiming the point of her borrowed dagger at it, "any last words?"
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Scramsax the Damn Cold zipped the rug directly towards Khors' light, but not before snagging a flask-full of yeast ale from the nearest pub. With his libations carefully managed, the rug hovered in the midst of the temple's light...with the halfling extracting, or at least pretending to extract, some warmth and comfort. From a distance, it really looked like the random movements of his lips were some prayer of gratitude.
After a time (his balls leaving the solid phase of matter behind) he announced "The one true prophet, Invictusol, sends an important message to those that will listen. Who among you allies themselves with Khors? Who among you will rise to His cause..." the cat urine vaporizing off his soaked shoulders dramatically.
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"Last words?!" The tiny voice say a bit incredulously. "I've no last words except for a curse upon that old crone and her twisted mind." If he could, you're all pretty certain the gnome would have spit at that very moment. Instead it just bounces clumsily in the wind. "Can't believe the old witch turned us into bloody balloons!"
Scramsax enters what must be one of the poorest, most dilapidated temples he's ever seen. No gold. No silver. No silk robes or smell of smoldering incense. Just a few wooden benches, a leaking roof, and a pair of elderly ladies arranging some scraggly flowers on a simple altar of stone sitting in front of a large glass sun mosaic missing several small tiles.
Peering up at the smouldering halfing, two pairs of wrinkled, rheumy eyes squint across the hall.
"Who's that now? Is it time for services already?" Crackles one of the temple keepers.
"No dear, he said something about getting a rise from his paws." Says the other.
"Oh! Is he one of those catfolk from far Nuria? I've always wanted to meet one of them." She cranes her neck forward, squinting even more. "Kinda short though."
*sniff*sniff*sniff*
"He certainly smells like one. My goodness, I best grab some cedar from the store room. Else Father Tavis will be thinking we let little Tiger sleep on the altar clothes again."
"Oh, we can't have that." The first woman, her white hair tied in loose bun with stray strands dangling everywhere waves Scramsax forward. "Come on up here, I've never met a Nurian before. And who's this Blue Prophet you're looking for? This's Khors temple, won't find any blue folk here."
"Except for may Reginald, he's always a bit down these days." Says the other, her small, wrinkled hands barely visible from beneath the oversized flower patterned dress that hangs loose from her thin frame. "Were you looking for Reginald, the butcher's boy. You'll find him two blocks down and on the left. He'll be working with his father today."
Arianna looks to the others, giving them one last chance to ask questions.
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He felt sorry for these poor pew-polishers, about to polish the poo off his smoldering shoulderings (of responsibility). Pointing directly at the faces of the women with his little finger "Silence infidels! But yes! I am a ratfolk from the Tower Mercuria! It pleases the prophet you have smelled so many! Behold!" He opened his vest to reveal the 'Perfect Pucker' logo, puffing it up at the non-existent collar in an effort to hype his fresh gear. Motioning to the cartoonish lips that curiously resembled a sphincter "Purrrr-fect said the rat!"
The assault of nonsense which vaguely confirmed and reassured the women gave him just enough time to plan the rhymes. The thief figured, if they were going to misunderstand everything with rhymes, he would be the one giving the misunderstanding...and with any luck the granny-interpretations would flip back to his true intentions. "We repaired do deceive high amends, surviving bouquet myth less skewed practitioners intermarrying Dan's ravioli expertise."
Be prepared to receive my friends, arriving today with rescued prisoners carrying an unholy disease.
Pursing his perfect puckerer a moment, the evaporating elocutioner continued (with 100% confidence). Walking right up to one of the women as invited, he motioned for them to bend before giving them a gentle little slap-tappy-tap to the jowls "Baked goats, panties, square skill trees..uh.. farty doves shrine? Flesh dumb...huh? Gasp! Gloved nocturnal flag-wavers!" He was working up a fierce sweat now "Flee, dill-weed! Dodging dudes prodigious disservices. Chick peas news! Sweats smoochie bum kiss, eh?"
Take note, aunties, there will be a party of nine fresh from the grasp of infernal enslavers. We will need lodging, food, religious services... Quick, these pews...lets scooch them this way.
Scramsax the Nurian Catfolk began rearranging the feng-shui of the temple, just as the prophet foresaw. Khors had truly blessed the faithful with tongues.
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Aterro listened carefully to the questioning, but his heart wasn't really in it. He was still kicking himself for letting the apparent leader get himself perished while in his care. Granted the survivability of the average balloon in the middle of a lightening strike isn't all that high, but to have had the prize in one's hands and then let it go still rankled.
So too, though he thought himself equal to any task that could be put before a man, be it of arms, of honor, or of wordplay, the art of hounding an intellect until it broke was never his forte.
So this was a lackey, and of course he knew nothing. And what cause had he to lie? At least the deal, whatever its particulars, was well and truly kaput. Then there were all these people to attend to and it seemed events, as the man said, move apace.
"Do it," is all he said.
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*POP*
Like the snap of a crossbow, Arianna's knife ends the gnome's feeble, cursed existence. A strange red aerosol bursts with the balloon coating Arianna in a sticky crimson coating.
Anette watches the sudden and pointed demise of one of her tormentors with a blend of horror, curiosity, and satisfaction. Standing at Luthael's side she turns to the prophet, her brow furrowed.
"Is...was...that really one of the gnomes who held us all prisoner?" She asks, still uncertain how to take the odd and remarkable transformation the creature suffered. "It isn't that I'm grateful he, they, are all dead. I just...I guess I just find it a bit hard to believe." She adds shaking her head in wonder.
And for the other refugees, they have little to say, except for grim nods of satisfaction at seeing the gnome dispatched to whatever devil's patch of hell was waiting for him.
Two sets of elderly eyes squint hard at the halfling even as the white haired temple busybodies tilt their wrinkled visages to better hear the seeming nonsense pouring forth from Scramsax like bilgewater from a punctured ship. Any random passerby or parishioner would like steer well clear of the rambling halfling and whatever obvious demonically possessed fit he was undergoing. The two gossiping hens merely listened more intently, their eyes growing wide with understanding and concern.
"Oh my!" Exclaims the first.
"Oh dear me!" Bursts the second.
"We should get Father Tavis at once." They both prattle even as Scramsax starts dragging one of the heavy wooden pews across the stone floor.
The loud, screech of the pew, which it should be noted, hadn't been treated or forced about in such a way for a good thirty years, elicits a flurry of muffled shouts from somewhere deeper in the bowels of the dusty temple. A few moments later an elderly priest comes shuffling out of a side hall past a shrine dedicated to some saint.
"What in the god's burning Light are you two biddy's doing in here? Trying to wake the dead!" Shouts a voice gnarled with age but powered with the practiced ease of someone used to making his voice carry to the back of any temple hall. His robes are clean, tidy, but worn to the point of fraying at the cuffs and collar. A few neat, but noticeable patches can be seen where the yellowing white fabric is a bit more off-white than the whole.
A long beard dangles from a long chin. A sturdy stick of fine hickory wood seems to be the only thing holding the man upright. The wrinkles upon wrinkles that mark his face and hands make the two women look like youthful tavern waifs. But despite his obvious age, his blue eyes are quite clear and his presence it was you might expect of one who has lived within the grace of his god for more than eighty years.
"We're doing no such thing Father Tavis." The first woman says primly.
"Indeed this young Nurian boy just informed us there are several poor souls coming our way who are in the most dire need of our help." Replies the other.
"We were just coming to get you, while he started the work of shifting the furniture about to make for more room."
"That's right father. Nine he said. Nine we'll need to find accommodations for on such short notice."
Father Tavis' eyes shift back and forth between his two aides and Scramsax. His eyes reading each of them as if they were yet another temple decree sent down from the High Patriarch himself.
"Hmpppfff." Is the educated response as he turns from the woman and shuffle-taps his way over to Scramsax. He leans in closer to the halfling. Close enough for Scramsax to receive a full pummeling of the man's rot toothed breath. The old priest's head snaps up and down the halfling a quick half dozen times.
"If you're Nurian, I'm one of Khors bloody angels." He says to the halfling. "More like, your from out west somewhere." A dismissive wave of the head. "Doesn't matter. What's all this about folk in need? And no gibberish that those two might comprehend. Speak plainly son or I'll rap the sass outta you real good." The thick staff taps against the stone to punctuate the point. "What kind of affliction is it? Where'd they get it? If it's another couple of boys who got themselves a little extra gift from Madame Lorna's, I'll not be bothered to worry about it."
"I'm sorry sir, you don't understand. Your actions have already been prescribed, and foretold...for your story is interwoven with the life of the Invictusol." meeting the man directly in the eye without wavering, save a smirk creeping higher lips-left. "Let the veracity of my claims be verified in your destiny. Witness the prophet's power for yourself, for I have taken a small portion of Khors. Witness now and analyze the ways in which Invictusol and Khors link the threads of spellcraft. Do you deny this is the work of an ally?" he shouted, before summoning the fire.
The magic of Invictusol burst forth, a divine gift Scramsax had stolen. It appeared, to a trained eye, trust-worthy Khors himself was guiding his hands through gestures...connecting some sequence or series of lightly glowing celestial symbols. A burst of heat before a pinpoint of light, the excitement of a heavenly presence intruding on your reality. A crackling brittle ball of pyroclastic glass or odd volcanic mineral, some hidden fume quick to combust and encircle the growing sphere with dim flames. The deep red whisps of flame circling in geometric patterns according to some magnetic effect, or as if painted by a divine brush.
== 20 total
"Say, if you give me the address of this 'Madame Lorna's' I'd be happy to engage in some research, sir. But no, it is quite clear to be something different. Prisoners of the Rothenian gnome menace, carrying a loaded taint ready to shoot Khors in the eye. But the prophet envisions the Father's temple as its salvation. You see, there is no choice. It is the will of Khors." waiting for the Father to help him move the next pew.
Arianna sputters as she's coated in gnomesblood. A part of her mind notes that, despite the many curses insisting to the contrary, it isn't black. After hastily casting a spell to clean it off, she takes a waterskin and washes her mouth out with as small a sip as she can manage and still have it do some good.
"That was horrible," she mutters after spitting the bloody mouthful of water over the side of the wagon. Her skin looks paler than it did a moment ago, though the parasitic demons inside of her seem to be thankfully quiet.
"That was one of them," she confirms. "The last one of them. Seems like they ran afoul of a powerful witch. Just as well that we missed that part."
Luthael gives a tired smile to Annette and replies, "yes, that was one of the gnomes. Yes, many things in Midgard are unbelievable. And, Khors meets his judgment in a variety of ways."
The prophet imagines Scramsax finding Father Tavis in prayer and calmly explaining to him to prepare for a dozen disease infected souls to purify.
"You are gonna need a bath. And Lutheal is gonna need sleep. Pretty Sure Aterro will need sleep aswell." I graduated said as she plodded along making sure to walk while others can ride.
"Yeah, a nice, hot soak sounds divine," Arianna agrees. "Magic's nice on the road, but sometimes you just want to feel that fresh out of the bath clean."
"You use magic on the Road? I just use a bit of RIver or Pond water"Ingryd says as she scratches her chin.
" You magic users"Ingryd chuckles
"I've bathed in mountain streams before. There's not any around, I was in a hurry to get rid of the blood, and I'm not fond of showing off. Being able to twiddle your fingers and whisk it away is just easier when you want to keep some shred of privacy. I could try teaching you, if you want."
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The old priests eyes roll upward toward the ceiling even as the two elderly ladies cease to preparations to oooh and ahhh at the halflings display.
"Oh my, he really does seemed to be blessed by the sun, doesn't he Meryl" Says one of the church tenders.
"Indeed he does Beryl. Why we've not been blessed with such miracles for quite some time." Replies the other.
Father Tavis rubs his temples with a gnarled hand and then raps his staff on the floor once again.
"Khors why?" He mutters before raising his voice enough to be heard by mostly deaf ears. "You two go back to...whatever it is you were doing." The good priest says to his nosy aides before his bushy brow furrows and his keen eyes turn their attention to the halfling. Eventually he just sighs and shakes his head while waving away the magic with his hand.
"That'll be enough of that. You aren't the first smart young adventuring lad to come crossing my doorstep. Spent a fair bit of time wandering the land myself when my blood ran a bit hotter. And I been dealing with the gods since long before your mother swaddled your first nappy around your bare behind. More than likely your right, Khors is certainly testing me. As if dealing with those two isn't enough." He says rapping the staff again. His voice leaves little room for further argument. "Now the only Invictusol I know, would be young Luthael from up at the manor. A good lad. Bright. Capable. And true in his faith by my estimation."
He give the end of a pew a shove with his staff helping Scramsax slide it the last inch or two into place.
"Gnomes you say? Hmmppff. Blasted devil dealing creatures. No good'll come from dealing with such folk. So with what have these poor souls been afflicted? Hell's Hives? Devil's Foot? Abyssal Gut Rot? Demonic Bowl Stones? Can't prepare well, if I don't know what I'm dealing with. Come on lad, less pomp and holy roller blather and more facts."
"Oh Blast!" The priest exclaims, a sudden remembrance claiming his attention. "You say these folk are new comers, non citizens of Lingenau?" He sighs. "They'll be stopped at the town gates and directed to the refugee camps unless they've wares to sell or proper papers or business."
"Oh yes." Offers elderly Meryl. "The new council laws."
"Not right." Says Beryl shaking her head sadly. "Turning away poor folk who have no place else to go."
"Yes, well, how're we supposed to feed and house them all? Why we're bursting as it is ever since those filthy undead took over Krakova." Argues Meryl.
"Enough!" Hollers Tavis. "We're not here to debate council policy, what we need to do is get to the gates and make sure young Luthael can get through."
He throws a heavy winter cloak over his thin frame and signals Scramsax to follow. "Come along you, let's put that gift for gab to some good use."
Dark gray day turns toward dark gray evening when the walls of Lingenau finally appear on the horizon. The tired and sickly band of survivors welcome the site as they continue their slow plodding march and ride toward the city and possible salvation.
Arianna and Ingryd discuss the niceties of bathing verses magical cleansing even as Aterro and Luthael continue to minister to the sick. A increasingly difficult task and the thick heavy cloud cover blocks much of the sun's warming and protective light. During a particularly dark period, Luthael was forced to once again call upon his faith to conjure an orb of holy light even as Aterro raced to apply his own healing arts to one of the afflicted men whose parasite suddenly grew active.
No two welcomed the sight of the town than Luthael and Aterro. However, hopes are soon dashed as they find themselves waiting in a long line of travelers waiting to seek entrance into the town. Many look like refugees or folk with very little money or hope, while others are clearly merchants, adventurers, or others seeking some sort of business within the town. All are forced to undergo questioning by a group of tired, surly looking gate guards who simply end up turning most folk away toward a ramshackle camp of tents and makeshift shelters.
"Luthael is his other name, yes. It would seem you do not believe he is the ordained prophet of Khors." he said with an air of disappointment. "I get it. You want to be careful before claiming something is the work of yer god. You know, yer pretty pragmatic for a priest. I like that." offering his hand to shake after finishing moving the pew. "But he is the chosen prophet, you shouldn't doubt."
"As for the ailment, well the words used were 'demonic parasites'...although our wizard used the term 'shadow parasites'. Seem to be all the rage these days I guess. My friend Finn even had a guide about using them to disable them glowin' rune traps, always said there was nothing better to spring them than their bloated carcasses. Said Nargenstal once received a shipment of 'em, well at least someone made it look like a shipment with the sigil of Morgau. Delivered right into town. Hmm, then there was that tentacle thing on the edge of the Void under Radovan's tower...it also had little parasites down on the ground jumpin into winged monsters. Oh, and the Mound creature used them too...where Dawnflower's Meadow Court badges and effects were stolen. Probably all the same thing? Maybe all the same thing?"
Scram tried to put all the pieces of his life and the chatterings of his companions together into something cohesive...
== 31 total
Then it clicked. The dream spider. The Doomspinner Dawnflower had mentioned...vermin offspring as she had said, like hair shed from a dog. It was exploiting the link to the Dreamworld to lure in victims across the region.
"Yeah, well guess its nothing new...tick-like appearance, these parasites. Living, dead, extraplanar demon...infects all. You know I just remembered something actually, they come from an ancient arch-nemesis of the Meadow Court elves. The Doomspinner. Heard of it?"
---
When the intrigue of the council was revealed, Scram mentally patted himself on the back for completely foiling their security earlier. He was after all both a new comer and non citizen yet waltzed right into a pub and ordered a drink as if owning the place. A natural smuggler. Wait...a certain person of a certain type would exploit such a situation...
Rushing forth with Tavis, the Nasty Rug dripping out his lootsack "You know, I'm no expert but anytime the flow of commerce is blocked by an authoritarian scheme, thieves are there pick up the deflected coin. If there's a block at the gates, no doubt there are smugglers that can bypass said block. What do you say to that? Know somethin'bout the Ligenau underworld getting people inside?" Scram asked, himself trying to also remember anything about thieves guilds or organized gangs in the area...
== 10 total
Arianna takes to singing soothing songs as the hours wear on and the light of day dims. Between the songs are hymns and quiet prayers to Khors, Thor, and her goddess, Elalune, asking them to give both Luthael and Aterro strength to endure and fight back the darkness. She puts on a brave face, insisting that the others are seen to, and that she is fine.
Luthael patiently waited. The Lord of Light had guided him this far over so many days. What was a couple more hours?
The prophet did nudge his companions to keep a quarantine distance from the others in the queue for the gate. No sense infecting them, too.
After a half hour of reflection, he suggests, "they may not let us through the gate. If they don't, a couple of you can seek Scramsax and Father Tavis at the church, while the rest of us retire to my family's manor. We will meet you there."
"Will do, I've been to enough of these types of places to get myself in. Besides we have loot to sell" Ingryd says as she looks at the others.
"At least the appearance of it" She says as she adjusts her gear and nods to Aterro and Gunnar.
"Doomspinner?" Father Tavis ruminates upon the name for a few moments.
"Gloomwinner. Wasn't that the young lady who won the raffle over at the Temple of Charun a few months ago?" Meryl's voice echoes across the hall as she drags a straw mattress out of a dust filled storeroom.
"No, no. He said Shroompicker." Says Beryl. "Though I don't know what that old fool Frothbottom has to do with anything. But he's the best mushroom man in Lingenau."
Tavis merely performs another eye roll and starts to hustle Scramsax out of the temple proper. "Come along son, let's leave these two cackling old fools to their work. We can ponder this Doomspinner along the way."
"You two. See that there's plenty of blessed water and wine! We'll also need willow bark, lavender, and bee balm tea. Buckets of it. And barrel of silvered sea salt from down in the stores." He hollers back at the two ladies who nod their understanding and continue with the work arguing about who really was the best mushroom farmer in Lingenau.
Tavis, moving with surprising quickness and authority despite his age and arthritic stoop hurries out the door and into the evening flow of folk.
"I do recall reading a few bits and pieces of this Doomspinner." He says as they walk along the busy boardwalk. "It is a tale from the old elven times if I'm not mistaken. A dream god, or very powerful creature, tried conquering the mortal world, or something along those lines. It was stopped and barred from the realm forever. At least that is what I recall."
"Dream creatures or hellspawn. Khors light will deal with them soon enough." His staff clonk-clonking on the thick pine of the town's central boardwalk. As he hurries along he waves away the need for associating with the town's underworld, such that it is.
"Best to steer clear of that lot." He says when Scramsax asks of the local smuggling underground. His voice is filled not with fright or concern, but scorn and apathy. "A more useless lot of layabouts and fools you'll not find. I grew up on these streets and know every nook and cranny of this town. Including ways in and out. If we need to get them in, I've no doubt we'll be able to. For now we'll just try talking to the guards."
The line slowly moves and evening rapidly approaches. Arianna covers her growing discomfort well enough, but some of the other stricken survivors are having more difficulty doing so.
Finally, the group of bedraggled survivors led by Luthael Invictusol arrive at the entrance to Lingenau. A half dozen armed and armored guards stand in tired attention while their commander starts filling out a form.
"State your name, number in your party and business in the city." He says, hand poised to jot down whatever information is shared. "Entrance fee for merchants is one gold a head plus one percent of the value of your inventory. The fee is waved for food and beverages." The words drone forth as if he's said them a thousand times, which he most likely has.
"Luthael, you are known here, yes? I have some coin I can share if it is needed for entrance to the city," says Gunnar as they approach the gates. At the guard's question, he looks to Invictusol for his lead.
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Aterro needed a nap.
He was never cut out for this. The unending healing, the cries of the sick, the stench. On the battlefield? Yes, of course. But there a man is killed, or, if wounded, there are LifeClerics whose primary call is to see to their comfort. But this?
It is not his lot to know only the laying on of hands.
He felt himself actually excited Excited! to see the worm-span almost burst forth. Ha! Let them come! They will know battle and be an example to the others!
Of course it would mean that the unfortunate before him would know the final death as the first casualty of the glorious battle...and that would be wrong. So he put extra oomph into his hands, and the fetid bulge retreated to rest.
So it is with no less joy that he greeted the sight of the guardsmen at the gate. They would let him in, of course, by hook or by crook. But to lead with the stick was no longer his way, so he tried first the honey.
"Hail to the Gate!" he proclaimed as if welcoming a long awaited brother-paladin, or a WarCleric at the head of band of DeathDealers now victorious come from reducing a savage orc clutch.
"I am Brother-PALADIN Aterro Dominatus, Wielder of the fell-hammer DeathMetal, sole combatant AND survivor of the Battle of Nargenstal Docks, and Chosen of THOR, the Thunderer.
I am come with a dozen hearty souls all, and we request the immidiate largess of the Cathedral of--"
'What po-dunk two-horse town did they call this? Oh, that's right--'
"Lingenau! The sage minds that inhabit that august palace of refuge and sagacity are already known of our coming, and to tarry hear for a moment longer will only invite their wrath. So throw back the gates, brother-warrior, and let us attend to the trivialities of paper and pen and some time more meet to the moment!"
Aterro puts on his megawatt smile number 1. His GLORIOUS mustache blows in the wind as befits a holy hero.
"Hmm, 'talk to the guard' you say..." Scram's eyes drifted towards the horizon as the priest's words entered his ear, a mental summer breeze quickly whisking them away and out its match on the other side. Nonetheless, the bastard waddled along, curious to see how this would all play out.
The guard notes Aterro's name. And quickly notes the shabby, stricken, and clearly unhealthy look of the survivors trailing after the knight.
"Entrance toll for warriors, knights, holy warriors, sell swords, scouts, yeoman, guards, and any other man or woman skilled in the use of weaponry is one gold dragon. This gives a one week temporary gate pass good for entrance and exit during normal daylight hours." Recites the guard. "Retainers, followers, aides, slaves, or any other accompanying the sponsoring warrior, ect. require an additional crown each and must be of sound physical and mental health." Emphasis is placed on the last phrase as guard looks over the ragged refugees.
"Following payment, you, Sir Dominatus are free to enter, as are these others who so obviously follow a path of war." He says pointing out Ingryd, Gunnar, and the armored and armed Luthael. "However, these people do not look to me to be either retainers, or for that matter, healthy." He says of Arianna and the other rescued prisoners. " We'll not have more disease brought into the town, they can camp outside the walls in quarantine for seven days, after which you can petition to have them admitted under your sponsorship."
"That'll be four dragons if all of you wish to enter. We haven't any Cathedrals here in Lingenau. Not big enough for such grandiose structures. You'd have to go to Zobeck, Courlandia, or seven cities to find such a thing. I'm afraid the gods have only blessed us with a few minor temples. Perun, Rava, Wotan, Valerush, and Yarila and Porevit you'll all find worshipped within." An aide roughly clears his throat, taking note of the obvious sun symbol dangling around Luthael's neck.
"Oh yes...there's also an old temple of Khor located somewhere along the western wall." There is no real malice in the man's voice when he speaks of Khors temple. Merely disregard. It is as if he's speaking of something that had already passed itself off into the shadowed memories of history.
Arianna sees that things are going about as well as she would have expected. A gold crown seems steep to her, but then again she hasn't been travelling through war-torn Midgard on her way north. She hangs the holy symbol of Elalune around her neck and makes sure it's in clear view of the guards, hoping the obviously mystic amulet will add a little grandeur to her performance.
Elalune, my goddess, please grant me a bit of grace and pluck. I'm going to need them. She silently prays as she hops off the wagon and walks towards the guards.
"Pardon, good sirs," Arianna speaks up as she draws close to Aterro, "I am Arianna of the Moonwood elves, traveler of the Fey Roads, minstrel, songstress, teller of tales, and adept with bow and blade. Luthael and Aterro here are the only reasons any of us less able-looking folk have made it alive at all. We all were taken by vile gnomish slavers who placed a foul abomination in each of us. Only by the light of Khors and the might of Thor have we been spared the same fate that befell three of us that survived to be saved by these stalwart heroes."
She gestures grandly to Gunnar, Ingryd, Luthael, and Aterro.
"I understand your concern, but this is no natural plague or illness that besets us. Demons of the foulest abyss writhe and wait for their time to burst forth. If you were to send us to the refugee camps as we are now, well, you may as well go and slaughter them yourselves. The ending of that tale will be no different. You'd only be remembered as the cruel guard that doomed scores to a terrible death when the right thing to have done is see to it that those favored by the good gods and blessed enough to perform divine miracles in their name know of our plight and are able to save not only us, but so many others."
She steps forward, her face shadowed as she bows her head. As she continues, the graceful movements as she pleads for her life and the lives of everyone that had suffered at the hands of the gnomes stop and her voice is cold and damning.
"Though I suppose there is one other choice," she says, moving up until the guard lowers his spear and aims it at her heart. She follows the shaft of the spear up until her eyes lock with the guard's.
"Put us all in a pit and burn us alive. Listen to our screams as you render Brave Luthael's efforts, his toil through sleepless nights, in vain. Then you would have less than ten cursing your name and damning you to relive that horror rather than dozens, perhaps hundreds."
She takes one, small step forward, stopping just as the tip of the spear presses into her breast.
"What will it be, guard of Lingenau? How many do you choose to damn?"
"Why Gold? Its a bit steep for many,even middling traders?" Ingryd asks the man as she stands there and puts a claw in to pull out some honey and eats it.
"Has the town come under some recent misfortune?" Ingryd asks curious.
”She speaks truly. This demon parasite infestation can only be contained or consumed by holy fire—unless we can find a cure. Has this town fallen so far that no succor is offered to those in need?” says Gunnar, indicating Arianna’s bold gesture.
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"That's fine. You go inside. I'll take the refugees to my family's manor. And meet you there."
"Guard. I'm Luthael Invictusol. We need Father Tavis at my father's manor immediately." The prophet suggests starting to turn the wagons toward his manor.
The guards face goes white as Arianna speaks of fey roads, slavers, and being infested with unnatural demonic plagues. For several long moments then man's instinct is to drive the spear into the elf and indeed burn the body and those of the sickly looking band that follows her. Curses and damning screams may fill his ears, but he felt pretty sure they'd be drowned in the sea of cheers and accolades from most folk at not letting such abominations cross the walls.
But whether it is the bard's words, Aterro and Ingryd's warning faces, or the way her tight fitting Grandmother's Lemonade t-shirt accentuates certain feminine charms that stays his hands, that stops the killing blow, only the deepest parts of his mind truly know. Regardless of what ethereal thought is the cause, the result is no bloodshed upon the dawning of this gray, cold covered evening.
Moments later, the decision as to what to do next in gratefully taken from the guard captain's hands as Luthael simply redirects everyone around the main city walls and up the winding side roll to his family manor.
"Ghouls." One of the guards says in response to Ingyrd's question. His lower lip swollen with a wad of tobac. "We've found ghouls inside the walls masquerading as citizens and refugees. Caught 'em trying to poison one of the granaries a couple weeks ago. Council's put 'mergency rules in place, including the new entrance toll."
He spits a wad of brown tobacco juice into the muddy ground. "Can't says I blame 'em much. Toll is a bit steep, but so's the cost of dealing with the troubles."
Hurrying through the busy streets just inside the gates, Scramsax and Father Tavis arrive just in time to witness the exchange between guards and Arianna, although the distance is too great for the elderly priest to hear any of the spoken words.
Instead he turns to Scramsax, his staff pointing toward the haggard looking band in the rickety wagon. "Are those the folk you've been talking about?"
Arianna steps back as it seems that another option has been found and decided upon. Her eyes stay locked with the guards, a petty part of her relishing the man's fearful expression, as she backs away. After a few steps, she turns and climbs back into the cart next to Luthael.
"You, Invictusol, are quite cruel," she says as she wraps a blanket around herself. "You could have spoken up before I made a spectacle of things there. Acting the part of a doom-saying madwoman is taxing"
She leans on Luthael. Now that the moment is passed, she feels spent, and she aches all over.
"Do you believe that your Father Tavis will be able to cure us," she asks quietly as they continue down the road. Now that they were so close to promised salvation, a part of her couldn't help but doubt that they would be saved.
Or perhaps a part of her doubted that the nightmare of the past few weeks would finally be over.
Ingryd Chuckles hearing Arianna "Been there done that" The bearkin says as she reaches up and touches her necklace.
"We can head into town and look about. Especially our wayward WHalfling" Ingryd reaches in and takes a nip of honey before she slaps Aterro on the shoulder.
"Come Battle Brother we shall look for fine liquor and food." She leans over and takes a sniff."And maybe a bath!"
Luthael lifts an eyebrow at Arianna's comments, "I'm sorry you think that. The guards are only trying to protect the town. And we are carrying an infectious demonic disease which would become much worse if others are exposed to it."
Down the road to his manor, he replies to her confession, "Khors and I would not have brought us here, if Father Tavis and I could not break this disease. Have faith."
"I'm sorry. I was only teasing you," Arianna apologizes, her voice soft and contrite. "I have a tendency to reach for the dramatic. I know he was only doing his job, but it feels-- cruel. Perhaps I have gone a little mad, after all."
Down the road when Luthael replies to her question, she feels guilty, though for what, she cannot say, perhaps it was doubting him.
"Even if my faith is not the same as yours? I am afraid I do not worship Khors, god of the sun, as you do. Will he still wish to help me?"
Gunnar stays with the infected ones as they travel. ”A quarantine is wise until a cure is applied—as long as the Temple of Khors is aware of our predicament and engaged in curing us, I care not whether it takes place within the city or without,” says Gunnar.
At Arianna’s question, Gunnar shrugs and says, ”I follow Thor, but Khors is a trusted ally. His priest will help us if he can”
"Are those the folk you've been talking about?"
Scram squinted at the figures in the distance, totally unsure "Uh yeah, that's them...I'm positive..." he mumbled before the wagon took a swift detour to the priest's house. "Oh, I forgot to mention: party at Invictusol's house. Yes, don't be silly...you're invited."
"No worries. There are many gods of Midgard. I've committed to Khors, the lord of light."
"I was suggesting you have faith in us and our course of action." The prophet offers.
"Sorry," Arianna apologizes again. "I guess I'm having trouble thinking this is almost over. From the time that hag chased me until now, it feels like one thing after another has been happening, rarely are they good things."
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"Ha! You the right of it!" Aterro yops in agreement, returning the bearkin's heart back-slap. "Confound but slaying a trio of wyverns after a lengthy and cold sojourn can work up an appetite! I hope this place has laid in stores for next winter, because I shall eat their stores for this one! Ha!
I do note that, despite the current troubles in the town, everything appears to unfolding in a decent way. Perhaps our luck has finally taken a turn toward the good?"
"Over? Oh no, Arianna. It's not almost over. It's just another chapter. You're going to help us an evil artifact to destroy." His smile is tired.
"Oh, not the journey. That I'm more than happy to continue," Arianna says with a chuckle. "I'm talking about the nightmare I feel like I can't wake from. It started with the hag chasing me though the Fey Roads, and hasn't really stopped. Every time I think it's over, something happens. It was the gnomes, then whatever they put inside us, and now I'm expecting something to happen to you or your Father Tavis or even to Scramsax before he can deliver his message, if it hasn't already."
She falls silent, wondering if she isn't mad.
"I almost went mad in that cage," she says, breaking the silence after a few minutes. "Seeing the sky so close and never being able to touch it was maddening. Always seeing the bars of that cage and the leers of my captors haunted my dreams. I wasn't what was real and what wasn't anymore. When you rescued me, I was so desperate to believe that you were real, but I'd dreamed of it before and woke back into a nightmare. That's why I begged you to be real. I couldn't trust myself to tell dream from reality anymore."
"Confound it!" Father Tavis grumbles when Scramsax points out the departing wagon. "Invictusol's manor? Why that's clear up on Griffon's Hump Hill. Well, best we go back to the temple and get everything we need before I drag my old bones all the way up there." He turns about and starts his usual cantankerous shuffle back to the ramshackle temple and its elderly caretakers.
***********
Meanwhile, Luthael guides the wagon and sickly survivors around the town wall and up the winding road to a well kept manor house surrounded by gardens, orchards, and the Invictusol Distillery known for a variety of fine liquors including Lingenau Lingonberry Brandy, selected as the runner up at the Zobeck Brewers Festival three years ago.
Beren, the Invictusol's family steward, greets the group warmly, but with a worried eye toward the so obviously unwell survivors.
"Master Luthael! A surprise to see you again so soon. I'm sure your mother will be quite pleased. Are you planning to have all of these folk stay at the manor?"
************
Deciding to spend a bit more time in town, Ingryd and Aterro pay the gate fee and pass through the wooden gate. Both immediately spot the Droopy Unicorn a large pub and inn located just a few hundred feet from the gate. The smell of roasting meet, fresh bread, and a crowded common room pour from the windows along with raucous conversation and the upbeat sound of lute, harp, and bodhron.
Scramsax nodded knowingly at the Father's consternation "Destiny of course, always when you least expect it. I'll bring my sack, so that I might better carry the temple's possessions." holding up a huge lootsack with a little silver thumbs-up embroidered at the rim. Of course the thief would help the Father gather the required materials...and if a certain diamond encrusted reliquary happened to slip into the halfling's lootsack of thievery? Wewps! What a goof!
"Oh, hello! Yes, well, can't meet her right away. We all need to be quarantined away from everyone. Maybe a barn." Luthael greets the steward. "We're all infected with a disease that I'm expecting Father Tavis to come help me cure us. Appreciate your help."
He was exhausted and wanted to fall asleep in his childhood bed, but he stopped getting what he wanted a long time ago.