He places one foot on the path with patient care. Then the next. Knobby knees wobbling behind threadbare woolen robes, still white after so many years.
He leans into the crutch, nestled into the pit of an amputated arm, the grizzled stump bedaubed with a patchwork of caustic scars.
His face a mask of serene and steadfast determination, his brow un-furrowed, his jaw lightly fixed, he treads the path.
In his one remaining hand he clutches a silver cross resembling the haft of a sword. "I take refuge in the dark tresses of the sword maiden, sister of Thyr, whose blade remains stainless though washed in the foul blood of the princes of darkness. I take refuge in the dark tresses of the sword maiden, sister of Thyr, whose blade remains stainless though washed in the foul blood of the princes of darkness. I take refuge in the dark tresses..."
Ahead of him the footpath converges with another wagon-trail warn into the rolling grassy knolls. The sun dips past the crest of the distant hills and the flowers of the field suddenly seem painted by an artist's brush as the sky blushes into ruddy and opalescent hues.
"The crossroads at twilight..." he murmurs, noting an overturned apple cart, too small for the hands of men.
Carefully he takes his seat at the foot of a crooked leafless tree. And there he waits.
As night falls, Faidh Llwych is making her way to the trade fair at the crossroads. As she rounds a bend she hears the sound of merriment. Fair folk are arriving pushing carts of handicrafts and rolling barrels of mead out from behind outcrops of rocks and the shadows of withered stumps of elder trees.
An ass with the hindquarters of a hare chewing a stalk of hay addresses the gathering crowd. "Who has a fiddle? Who will play?""
Faidh feels the scar of the burned tattoo tingle, pulling her attention towards a crooked forked tree, bereft of leaves. At it's feet, an old man with sagging skin. A mortal. A priest of the Gods of Men. He prays on his rosary. He has gone as if unnoticed by the good folk. He seems to be waiting for someone.
.
Fiadh carries with her the goods given for trade in a thick old burlap sack. The Firbolg hunches a bit wrapped in her cloak and layers, until the sounds and lights began to crest her ears and tilluminate the night further. Stopping she shifts to a smaller frame, one of a comely red haired half elf woman.
The Firbolg gingerly moves about as she smiles taking in the beauty and splendor of the place. So warm so full of bustle. A community, which she rarely gets thanks to her duties. A forlorn sigh is emitted before she gets to a cart and smiles, showing a gap in her illusions teeth.
" I have items for trade, what sort of wares do you keep? Would my wares be worth a fair trade?" Fiadh speaks in a strange manner with an accent that seemed almost ethereal. Fiadh knee the common tongue but still couldn't get the hang of the local speech and accent.
A red-haired Spriggan with sky blue eyes smiles, revealing a row of over-sized molars bulging out of his gums where his front teeth should be.
"Madame, touch it! This shawl is spun from ettercap silk as soft as milk thistle. The weaver went blind from toxins while extracting the silk gland from the slain ettercap, and the pattern you see woven here is indeed the artists vision of the purple endless sky seen only by those who lose their mortal sight and learn to see within! By wearing this you will always find your way home. Look how it matches your eyes!"
Looking around, Faidh can see the papers and inks she seeks can be surely procured here, but none of them are simple utilitarian things, all are of exotic and quirky make and origin. Difficult to appraise in terms of silver, and the fey are fickle and insensible trade partners, known to strike a bargain more on the basis of fancy and whim. Nothing has a fixed price and the terms of barter are highly influenced by a tall-tale or a sentimental turn of phrase.
Seeing the woman struggle she looks deeply at the spring and and raises a brow.
" Are you in pain? Tooth pain?" Fiadh asks concerned now for the woman instead of the deal. Though she wasn't a fan of her God granted powers Fiadh did use them to help others. This woman was clearly in pain, and she needed aid, if she could provide it she would.
"Erk!! What's this? How did you know? Have you medicine for me then? If you can mend my pain you can take a few things you fancy..."
The spriggan's jaw open's unearthly wide as if it was on a hinge. Faidh can see the infected tooth.
All the while the human priest quietly sits beneath the tree nearby looking on with interest.
Fiadh looked at the woman and nods. " I have my trade herbs and divine gifts,But I believe the priest can help better than I" came her alto voice. Husky but light dancing in the air strangely.
"We should see if he can aid you" Fiadh suggested as the phoney looking half-elf gestures for the spring and to follow as she walks over and smiles.
"Cuse me Saer, I see you are holy. Can you perform healing for another?" She asks earnestly in hopes to end the spring ans suffering
,
The old priest looks up, glancing at the spriggan and back at Fiadh. The skin sagging from his jowls almost makes him resemble a hound.
”Healing minor aches and pains is a trifle. But they must think you mad by now. My Goddess has covered me with a glamor to veil me from the sight of the Fair Folk. To them it must appear you are conversing with a tree!
Hur hur hur cough cough...” His deep chuckle turns into a cough as flem rattles in his vocal cavity. ”Tell me, are you not the attendant of the spinster Bolga? I did a small kindness for her in days gone past, and she gave me this token.“
Setting his silver holy Symbol on his lap he frees his one good hand to probe inside his white wool robe, finally drawing forth a withered crab apple.
Fiadh recognizes this as one of Bolga’s charms, given as a token of a favor owed.
Holding the crabapple up before him for Fiadh to inspect , the old priest continues to speak.
”I tend to a small shrine in the village of Grimmsgate. I am the last remaining priest in the area. My great-grandfather was a young acolyte but he fell for a village girl who came to the temple complex to deliver rice. He pursued her and that’s why he didn’t meet his end when that temple fell to calamity some 200 years ago. That’s the story my own father told me. Although great grand-dad married and gave up the cloth, he passed on the knowledge of the catechisms as best he could down the line, and that family knowledge has been enough for me to establish a connection with the Gods and receive their divine blessings to tend to my small community.”
He pauses to make some smacking sounds with his lips and hack up some flem before continuing to speak with some effort.
”Last week a dwarf came to the village from one of the mountain clans deep beneath the earth. His people are being ravaged by a demon of ash and he believes the elder temple of my forbears holds a clue to the means that once imprisoned the evil. The temple ruins lie somewhere on the land near my village. I want to send word to the church in Endhome. They must send me acolytes to delve the temple and take over my shrine when I am gone. The dwarf will accompany you if you will go on this errand. If you accept, then I will know that Bolga’s word is good.”
Under his breath he murmurs some incantations.
”I have issued a prayer for the spriggan. Give her a clove pod from among your herbs and let her keep it in her lip. The pain will subside.”
After watching the old priest shuffle off into the wild, Akkramar notes the trail of evenly spaced holes punched by that walking crutch into the sodden earth, moist from recent rain.
Where had he said he was going? To find “a messenger”?
Akkramar had come a long way to find this temple the demon spoke about, and here he was in a pitiful little hovel shrine in a village that looked like it wouldn’t last but another season or two before being swallowed by the trackless wild that encroached on it from all sides. There was a feeling that life was cheap here and no one knew when it might be their time to go.
This was surely not the site of a temple where great Templar’s had managed to subdue the ash demon that was now stalking the halls of Akkramar’s home.
The dwarf had even walked past a blacksmith’s forge and seen the smith passed out and sleeping away the whole day and afternoon, empty bottles of ale littering his workspace. A far cry from the conduct of Akkramar’s clan, where the forge was in itself a holy vestibule.
Akkramar can’t help but note, it wouldn’t take a skilled tracker to follow the old priest in these conditions...
" Clever,Mad maybe always. Possibly would explain much." Fiadh says reaching out to support the older priest which belaying her illusions more delicate figure. She listens to him talk and nods. Inwardly she curses when the realization that this man was blind, and her nods of agreement would obviously go unnoticed.
"Yes,Bolga, She is my current mistress. I serve her as attendant." came the concluded concluded strange manner which she speaks. It was true, but still Common was rarely used in her homeland. Giant or Elven was standard, later with Eluda she learned Sylvan. So add that into an already confusing life the paladin had come to speak strangely, almost alien in a way.
" Agree, I shall Good priest" Agreed the Firbolg. With a smile she turned to the Spriggan and pulled out the herb pouch." Magic has been worked, though pain remains." Fiadh fumbles through her sack and pulls forth the herbs for trade and sighs.
" The goods I brought will sooth your ache. No more trade will be done I guess" Fiadhs half elven hand holds out the pouch, one full of various herbs delicately cultivated and plucked buly her under the glare of Bolga. They would fetch a handsome sum, but fate deemed otherwise.
" Place within and seep, should numb and heal." Fiadh said now as more of a doctor then an adventurer. Which honestly she liked better, for she was able to ease the suffering of not one but two people.
Not in the habit of judging a book by its cover, Akkramar observed the priest as he walked away - he knew there was probably something else there, more than met the eye.
But even if there wasn't, it mattered not - wisdom and knowledge were not measured by one's outlook, and that was what he needed - "In any case, tha place is in shambles, dat is fer sure - I wonder why" - he looked around.
"I'm guessin' I know someone who may be knowin' the answer" - he added to himself with a shrug and a smile, and unceremoniously followed after the old priest - "He won't be mad just because I fergot to ask him somethin', now will he?"
By the time Akkramar reaches the crossroads dusk is fading into gloom. Whisps of laughter can still be heard, echoes of a pipe melody, the creak of wagon wheels, but all those are soon gone like ripples on the surface of a lake. A few signs of the small trade fair are left behind; a golden apple from an overturned cart, a long stemmed pipe still smoldering with a mild tobacco. But even these seem to be vanishing with the fading light.
Fiadh see’s the dwarf approaching before the Priest is aware of him, occupied as he is in insisting he doesn’t need help to get himself up from his seat at the foot of the crooked tree.
As he approaches, Akkramar sees the firbolg in conversation with the Priest. He raises his arm in a greeting, and offers a nod from afar - ”Well met”
The priest jerks upright with a start. ”Harumph! That you dwarf!? You might have saved your legs the walk , the fair folk won’t be seen unless they wish. At any rate I’ve found your travel companion. The trip may not be as perilous as your journey up from the mountain holds, but still you should not go alone. And this one will be received well by the temple magistrate . The goddess Muir smiles on all knightly champions, even those who follow green and inscrutable Gods. And you yourself serve a divine patron. You will make quite a pair and the temple will not refuse to send acolytes here to aid me after all my long years of prayer.”
Fiadh looks from the priest to the dwarf and nods. She still appears a half elf woman with curly red hair and vibrant green eyes. She smiles her gap toothed smile and holds out her hand.
" Hail Sir Dwarf or is it Madame, I know not how dwarves look, I have red Dwarven woman also wear Beards though it may be outdated information." Faidh began to sweat a bit as she chuckled nervously.
" I'm Fiadh of the Forest, yes the Forest. I shall deliver the note with you. May the Goddess bless us and guide us." The Half elf smiles though her cheeks blush as she hopes her handshake isn't too much, she is a bit stronger then some of the smaller races.
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Boh'kul's Garden
Boh'kul drags a mesh wisk through the boiled milk, scooping out cinnamon sticks, cardamom pops and black pepper corns.
"I ain't seen him Bez. No one has. But I do have a lead for you. The duelist Val'grish has a brother, if rumor has it right. An arcanist at the academy. I don't know if they welcome visitors, but I'm sure you have your ways of fashioning an invitation or finding yourself an unlocked door. If any one knows where Vex went I reckon it'd be that dark-elf dandy. I don't know how many times his blasted honor fights have been the rain on Vex's latest picnic in the park."
The looming half-orc speaks in hushed tones, not only for confidentiality but rather in concert with the atmosphere of calm he has cultivated throughout his tea garden. The exotic plants have a mood about them as if they are basking in the acoustics and the elegant symmetry of the architecture. One would almost expect the thorny vines and flytrap blossoms to animate and snap at any offender who dared to bluster or shout.
A couple patrons sit in a table in the corner. Not delivery service men, but the sort who know where they are and how to act. Minding their own business. Having a hot totty. Paying no mind to the tiefling and his half-orc friend.
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Bez taps his tea plate restlessly. "Hhhhaaahhh. Thank you, Boh'kul. This doesn't feel like one of his times when he goes haring about with naked blade himself, or...other naked things."
Beziriphas doesn't bother to hide his burnished inhuman skin, or blazing green eyes, nor his curling yellow and grey horns that sprout from his forehead and sweep over his black locks, tied in a ponytail and shorn on the sides to reveal grey mottled spots on his temples. Rather, he's chosen attire that accentuates it--a dashing purple silk ascot, one of many in his closet, but clearly one of his favorites--and a dark suit that's been tailored to fit his slender frame, with dashing yellow accents. His more utilitarian, but still stylish, armorings and gauntlets rest beside him, indicating he's taking his time in Boh'kul's Garden, but his two swords never leave his scabbard belt.
He nods and sips his own lavender saffron concoction, savoring the cloudy swirl with his eyes, nose, and palate. A dash of turmeric offsets the cool hum of the lavender--perfect, as usual.
"Val, yes. He can be vexing, no pun intended. I've crossed swords with him myself, but never voluntarily." He winces slightly, as if remembering a now-invisible scar on his sleek, coppery features.
He frowns, then breathes deeply and does his very best to relax. "A thousand tiny gods bless you for the peace of this place. Did you know, the last time I was here, someone insulted my ascot and I did not break their nose with the flat of Dyozy here?" He points to the hilt of his left-hand blade. "Honestly, you must put sleep-orchid in your tonics." He smiles as best he can, but his eyes continue to dart as if his brother might suddenly step through the garden arch.
"Aah, ahem, to clarify, they insulted me outside of your tea garden. Nowhere within earshot. I know the rules," says Bez a little more meekly.
No rules are listed anywhere, but everyone knows them.
Fiadh looks from the priest to the dwarf and nods. She still appears a half elf woman with curly red hair and vibrant green eyes. She smiles her gap toothed smile and holds out her hand.
" Hail Sir Dwarf or is it Madame, I know not how dwarves look, I have red Dwarven woman also wear Beards though it may be outdated information." Faidh began to sweat a bit as she chuckled nervously.
" I'm Fiadh of the Forest, yes the Forest. I shall deliver the note with you. May the Goddess bless us and guide us." The Half elf smiles though her cheeks blush as she hopes her handshake isn't too much, she is a bit stronger then some of the smaller races.
"I'm guessin' ye can call me Sir if ye want" - the dwarf replied with a chuckle - "But Akkrammar is just fine" - he smiled.
"Not very sure what ye mean there lass... Of the forest? Ye mean ye live in tha forest, is that it?" - he offered his hand in a greeting also, which revealed a strong grip - "And... We're deliverin' a note?" - now he looked surprised - "I didn't know that"
Boh’kul smiles bemusedly. ”Best luck Bez. There’s a few academy types that come here for licorice tea in the evenings. If you want to ask them anything before you head over there, be my guest. Just don’t make them feel uncomfortable.”
"Not very sure what ye mean there lass... Of the forest? Ye mean ye live in tha forest, is that it?" - he offered his hand in a greeting also, which revealed a strong grip - "And... We're deliverin' a note?" - now he looked surprised - "I didn't know that"
The old priest fans the air as if swatting an insect.
”Well have I got to tell you every little thing dwarf? Just keep the messenger safe here, bring the note to the Temple of Muir in Endhome, escort the acolytes back to me. In no time we’ll be excavating the elder temple and then you’ll know how to imprison your ash demon problem. And I’ll have a successor. Can you manage that? Ahuff ahem ack agghhkkkk...”. He begins wretching up a thick stream of mucous and flem and leans heavily into his crutch from the effort.
Centimeters of dust coat every surface in the claustrophobic little cubby hole which has been serving as study hall and meeting room for for Melira and Saendithas. Today they have a third interlocutor among them. The half-blind gnome Hazdranyl stands stands precariously on a tall stool, wiping a section of the table free of dust with the loose sleeve of his robe, seemingly unaware of the dramatic discoloration rendered upon his garment.
Satisfied with the workspace, he gestures and an invisible servant sets down a heavy tome with a thud. The tome opens and and a rustling sound fills the room as the pages seem to flip through themselves..
”Further. Further. And stop. No you’ve missed it. Back. Back. And, there.” He closes his bad eye when he concentrates, causing one whole side of his face to screw itself up into a mass of wrinkles and creases. ”Now then. I thought nothing of it when the board rejected your proposal. They are always reluctant to approve funding for research based on Astrogical findings. The celestial spheres are of dubious influence, the whole field has been called into doubt, the deterministic interpretation is not in vogue as you know, yes yes, not in vogue at all. And Ambrose never liked you. I thought nothing of it. After all your premise sounds quite implausible. Humans born with fiendish attributes, heralding a return of banished princes of the abyss... With no evidence apart from analysis of zodiac charts... indeed! That is, until I saw this!”
He points at the book, whose pages are filled with vellum charts mapping constellations over-layed with elliptical patterns in translucent ink. At the section which is relevant to Saendithas’s theory, the pages have been roughly torn out.
”What do you think, Melira? If Saen is crazy why tamper with a book?”
Melira glances at Saendithas, thinking for a moment. "Obviously this doesn't prove anything," she says quickly. "But why tamper with a book?" She repeats Hazdranyl's question slowly, frowning ever so slightly.
"We might be wrong about what the prophecy is about exactly, but we're onto something. Maybe something important." She glanced up at the Gnome, and then at Saen, her eyes glinting with curiosity. "Who might have done such a thing?"
The old priest fans the air as if swatting an insect.
”Well have I got to tell you every little thing dwarf? Just keep the messenger safe here, bring the note to the Temple of Muir in Endhome, escort the acolytes back to me. In no time we’ll be excavating the elder temple and then you’ll know how to imprison your ash demon problem. And I’ll have a successor. Can you manage that? Ahuff ahem ack agghhkkkk...”. He begins wretching up a thick stream of mucous and flem and leans heavily into his crutch from the effort.
"Bah! I don't remember ye sayin' it in so many words when we spoke earlier, but fair enough" - Akkramar grumbled - "So the lass is the messenger then? I guess that clears it. Are we waitin' for anyone else?"
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Bez nods and finishes his drink slowly, eyes on the swirling liquid, then the plants, then his drink again. He leaves a substantial tip, as is his propensity, and vacates the place as quiet as a shadow on a doorstep.
His rounds are more perfunctory than usual; a note to Vanni in the usual cypher, a check of some dead drops and bolt holes and quiet chats in a few alleys. The Bindles will be all right for a while without Vex, but only for a while. And Bez already isn't all right, not without his brother. Dinner is a more animated affair with other members of the Crwth; his allies. They slap him on the back and he tries not to bristle as they laugh off his concerns, telling him Vex is just doing what Vex does.
That Xuurkh means well. But demon's bits, he needs a barber surgeon to look at those teeth. If he came closer to me for one more half-drunken confidential whisper I'd be the one removing them for him.
Bez adjusts his suit and strolls back to the Garden again, giving himself a mental chit for not performing some amateur pugilistic dentistry on an ally. Instead, he's pocketed Xuurkh's brandy and sips from it without thinking much of it.
There, he scans for the academics and does his best to effortlessly inveigle them.
However, the brandy's gone to his head.
"I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?" he drawls to one elderly woman, making a circle on the table with one copper toned finger. "Just needed some informash..infoma---information. Peah. Excuse me. Clove stuck in my throat."
"Bah! I don't remember ye sayin' it in so many words when we spoke earlier, but fair enough" - Akkramar grumbled - "So the lass is the messenger then? I guess that clears it. Are we waitin' for anyone else?"
”Someone else?! How many strangers in these woods do you suppose are owing me a favor, dwarf? Were you hoping for a minstrel to serenade you on the road? I should think not. Speaking of roads which one are you taking? The Gaelon flows from here to the sea, so Endhome is downstream. The river has footpaths along it’s banks. You can make it in little more than a fortnite on foot. Otherwise if you want the security of patrolled roads, you can take the traders way down to the King’s Highway. The worst you’d face is the odd bandit but it will take you several days more travel.”
The old man’s belligerence doesn’t seem to stem from real deep hatred, but there is a difference in his demeanor compared to when he addresses Fiadh, and something telling about the way he spits the word “dwarf”. You get the feeling he’s used to getting away with things because of his elderly status.
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"Ak..Ak..Akkramar? Akkramar"The strange accented Half-elf says trying to pronounce the dwarfs name. Dwarven was not a tongue she was relatively familiar with. Though similar to Giant which she did know fluently it was not enough to decipher the actual tongue of the Dwarvish people.
"Note, yes That is how one communicates messages. I have seen it many a time from the road. Or am I thinking of something else?" Came the words she spewed forth trying to decipher the proper words. The common tongue spoken by those in this world was not her first language. Though possessing a wide and knowledgable breadth of the Trade Language, she still had a hard time disseminating the words and phrases as she is more attune to Elven, Giant, and Sylvan tongues from her years growing up in her village. Which is why she was awkward in speech, that combating her potential lisp or whistle that may happen due to her teeth. Which despite her illusory ability never seemed to fade from her multitude of disguises.
"Yes, Forest though also the servant of Mother Bolga!" She exclaimed loudly showing a broad and beautiful smile. Which she was honestly proud of Bolga had treated her incredibly well despite her many years of exile. More like a mother and father to her than her actual parents who supported her ousting.
"Other, I think not, though I do not truly know?" Faidh breathed and then looked about."Reveal to you I shall, but not yet. Maybe later." Faidh spoke looking at Akkramar as she began to pull up her hood and scarf. She seemed to try and bundle up,retreating somewhat deeper into her own space.
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"Reveal to me..." - Akkramar stared at Faidh and pondered the words to himself, seemingly a bit lost - "Not sure what ye mean lass, but let's see here - yer mother's name is Bolga" - he offered a polite head nod - "We are not waitin' fer anybody else, and... Note, yes" - he added.
"And the old crone here seems ta have nothin' more ta tell us anyway" - he gave the old man a sideways glance and a scowl - "At least to 'tha dwarf'
Turning again to Faidh, Akkramar continued - "I'm sayin' we know where we need ta be, so we hit the road. Whaddya think? Feel like a stroll along the river?"
"We might be wrong about what the prophecy is about exactly, but we're onto something. Maybe something important." She glanced up at the Gnome, and then at Saen, her eyes glinting with curiosity. "Who might have done such a thing?"
The old gnome uses his thumb and index finger to straighten his whiskers, a mannerism Melira has observed in him many times when he was deep in thought.
”I can’t say Miss Melira. But I have one objection to this prophecy. Saendithas has informed me that his research points to a return of the dark princes of power and a rise in their cults upon the face of this world. And as a herald or an omen of their return, we are expected to see a child born to human parents, bearing physical signs of the fiendish attributes for which the demonic princes are known. Horns, tail and so on. Not to mention a very specific reference in the cryptic prophecy to a black fingernail on the little finger of the left hand of this supposed individual, who has been enigmatically referred to as ‘the Harbinger’. Now tell me this, have you ever seen such a person? If you show me one I shall support your endeavor.”
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"That's just the point: such a person would be highly unusual. Exactly the type of person a whole prophecy would be built up around, someone touched by forces we don't fully comprehend." Melira is filled with energy when she gets interested in something, her whole body animating in a way that tends to excite the people around her. "Besides, like you said, the deterministic interpretation is not generally accepted. The whole thing could be some elaborate metaphor we don't understand yet, but which will become apparent when we find The Harbinger." Melira pauses for a moment, having noticed that her hands are now covered in dust, though she can't remember touching the table.
"What do you think, Saen?"
[dice=Investigation]1d20 + 6
[dice=Persuasion]1d20 + 2However, the brandy's gone to his head.
"I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?" he drawls to one elderly woman, making a circle on the table with one copper toned finger. "Just needed some informash..infoma---information. Peah. Excuse me. Clove stuck in my throat."
”Well I never! Do you realize I have tenure! Did I study all those long years only to have my tea disturbed by a greasy ruffian who has been imbibing strong drink? Harumph!” She excuses herself to go preen and powder her coiffure presumably.
But moments later from the alley outside Bez can hear her male companions discussing the encounter in her abscence.
”What did you make of him? Have his class of people taken to dressing up in costume makeup? The horns were very convincing, do you suppose illusory magic was employed?”
The other stammers a reply, quite taken aback. ”And that copper-tone skin! I suppose he was asking about Rhendlyth if I’m not mistaken. A dark-elf at the academy, an apprentice of evocation magic specializing in electrical currents, lightning and so on. Quite a shocking fellow if I may say so, harumph harumph! But I don’t suppose our costume clad friend will get a chance to talk to him without an invitation to enter the academy.”
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" Bolga did not sire me,Mother is her title!" Fiadh says as she seems to look both taller and wider with her face and body now more obscured by her scarf and gear. She though seemingly never moved nor any other strange patterns save her moving her gear about.
Fiadh nodded as she stood and reached up to a loose piece of her cloak. She removes a small patch and walks forward to the old priest. She places it in his hand and speaks. " Revered Elder I shall complete your task. I thank you for the opportunity and in thanks give a piece of my Cloak. It is not much but it has been wear many have never tred. Thank you." Fiadh stands and stretches again her full height apparent again as she looks down at the dwarf.
" Yes ebb with the flow" Came her reply and subsequent chuckle. It would be nice to see more of the world. It may even take her mind off Eluda and home.
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Bez sits for a good long while with some steaming chamomile, and his thoughts turn from sour, black things spiked with revenge at various nonexistent agents who clearly have abducted his brother, to pale, violet quivering puffs of horror and mortification.
A thousand tiny gods, I was just an inebriated buffoon in the GARDEN. What in the tesselating Hells has come over me?
He stands up carefully, leaves an inordinately large and apologetic tip, tip toes out without bumping into anything unduly, and hands the nearest beggar the measly remainder of Xuurkh's flask. "Don't drink it all in one place," he says distractedly, and heads back to one of his smaller safe houses to get some sleep.
"An academy invitation, an avademie incantation, an invitric defenestration..." he sings to himself.
" Bolga did not sire me,Mother is her title!" Fiadh says as she seems to look both taller and wider with her face and body now more obscured by her scarf and gear. She though seemingly never moved nor any other strange patterns save her moving her gear about.
"Fair enough, fair enough - don't get yer panties all tied up in a bunch about it. I understand it. Mother Bolga is not yer mother. There" - Akkramar nods.
Fiadh nodded as she stood and reached up to a loose piece of her cloak. She removes a small patch and walks forward to the old priest. She places it in his hand and speaks. " Revered Elder I shall complete your task. I thank you for the opportunity and in thanks give a piece of my Cloak. It is not much but it has been wear many have never tred. Thank you." Fiadh stands and stretches again her full height apparent again as she looks down at the dwarf.
" Yes ebb with the flow" Came her reply and subsequent chuckle. It would be nice to see more of the world. It may even take her mind off Eluda and home.
"Yeah... That. Time ta be ebbin' with the flow" - he caught himself and stopped staring at the piece of cloak Faidh had offered the elder, shaking his head.
"We'll bring back yer acolytes, don't worry. See ya soon, ye old.... Huh..." - he looked sideways at the old man, and then at the Firbolg - "Elder, I meant revered elder" - now it is his turn to chuckle as they head off.
”The river’s that way.” the old man says flatly, pointing with his one hand, the piece of cloth in hand as he does so.
And before the eyes of the dwarf and the firbolg he takes the piece of cloak to his face and coughs a wet rattling flemmy cough right into the fabric. ”Oh.” he says meakly. ”Sorry. Thanks.”
The forger looks up from a table littered with inks and papers. ”The academy? Why not. They use cards with a light foiling. I have one ready-made if you care to go as ‘Humphrey Hottentot, Esquire’. If you that doesn’t suit you or you have something specific in mind, you’ll have to come back in the afternoon.”
Once the invitation is in hand, Bez is on his way. The Academy isn’t difficult to locate. It’s a place he’s strolled by before. One central manse with gothic arches gives access to the whole complex. A connected hall forms a pentagonal structure enclosing a yard where treetops blooming with exotic blossoms In lavender and periwinkle hues, and the spires and peaked roofs of smaller halls and libraries can be seen. In some cases the arched windows grant a view straight through the surrounding enclosing low hall structure, revealing well groomed pebble lined paths connecting the free standing departmental buildings within.
Bespectacled apprentices in hooded robes occasionally traverse the pebbled path muttering incantations or contemplating mysteries, seemingly unaware of the city life outside the academy wall.
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Bez applies "flesh"-colored makeup ("The damnable merchants need to stop calling it, that," he grumbles, deftly using the sponge around all exposed skin save for one hand, "It's incorrect, racist, and speciesist as well.") and puts on a much more somber ensemble than he is used to, covering the one hand with a black glove, and decks himself in regal, yet serious greys and blacks, finishing with spit-polished boots tucked in the cuff in a military manner, and of course, his swords. Smoked spectacles hide his unusual eyes.
He arches a 'human-colored' brow at the sight of the Academy as if he is quite perturbed, and walks, ramrod-straight-backed, towards the gates, his card safely tucked in a breast pocket, the very model of a modern...well, some sort of military rank. Off duty. In mild distress but attempting to hide it.
Bez walks with the certainty of someone who fully expects to be let in by the first attendant or concierge or minordomo who appears.
Fiadh and Akkramar have to camp once in the woods before they make it to the river. Fiadh knows this area well enough to guide them, but Akkramar gets the sense he would have been able to manage on his own. Basically just go north til you hit the massive river, then follow it East which is downstream, since it’s flowing down out of the mountains to the west and making its way to the sea, where Endhome is a major sea port. This is a very straightforward trip to make, without a lot of twists and turns.
The woods do have a hint of otherworldliness about them, but maybe that tone was set by the fact that the traveling companions did have their first meet-up at a tradefair between the material plane and the fey realm. At any rate, there is nothing of note about the night spent in the woods. The wildlife if anything seems a bit elusive and never comes into full view.
The river itself can be heard before it’s seen. About 100 meters across to the far bank, it is not a white water rapid but it is noisy and rapid enough to cast a misty spray into the air in the rockier areas and where sandbanks and mossy branches and stumps occasionally break it up. A mule trail along the banks go be a the clue that this is a tradeway but no river boats are seen at this time.
On the second day along the trail, in the afternoon before sundown, voices are heard ahead. The tone is one of excitement but the actual words are mostly lost in the river spray.
Fiadh continues on enjoying the scenic nature about her
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"I hear voices" - the dwarf commented to his traveling companion - "From the sound of it, it be lookin' they are fishin', and the catch has been good" - he chuckles, continuing in the direction of the sounds - "Mayhaps we can convince'em to sell us some"
As Akkramar and Fiadh round the bend a group of fisherman come into view. They wear simple clothes of tribal people , mostly sarongs of unstitched cloth with a very simple tunic. One of them has gone over the edge and is being borne down stream with a fishing rod still in hand and a fish still pulling the line taught.
Nearby with a great splash you see a great salmon leap out of the water. These are huge fish and their meat is worth a king’s ransom.
"Well met" - Akkramar greets the fishermen - "Now that be lookin' like an amazing catch - would ye be willin' ta sell us one of those, fer a couple of weary travelers ta dine on?" - he smiled.
Fiadh remains stoic for a bit as she looms over the others gathered covered up from view. She then spoke.
" They do smell lovely, and by parting with a couple for some coin already sets you up with coin and a considerable start to more coins," the voice was light and feminine with soprano notes in there. She though cut an intimidating figure with no visible.facial features her hands gloved, with a thick green cloak that was dark as the forest around her. Her chainmail had green tinge to it, and her weapons were on her back ready to pull. Her shield though was Iorn shod and wood with the symbol of a moth on it. Atop of that her 8 foot tall frame loomed over the rest as if a giant had emerged from the woods.
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"Yep, I am short and the lass is huge" - Akkramar chuckled - "Ye can stop starin' and get it out of yer system, so we can do business"
A couple of the fisherman turn with just their necks and scan the pair of travelers with their eyes, mouth slightly agape as if trying to mouth a response but not able to quite form a word. The posture of their bodies belies where there attention is really focused though, for though they crane their necks momentarily to acknowledge the speech of the dwarf and the disguised firbolg, they still stand with their chests facing the river bank, knees slightly bent, stooped forward toward their companion who is careening along towards some of the jagged rocks.
One of them who is more intent thank the others pulls his tunic over head and poses to dive in after his friend.